IN  THE 
ALCOVE 


JENNETTE  LEE 


E. 


£W 


THE   WOMAN 
IN  THE  ALCOVE 


CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELA 


Wrapped  in  the  coat,  she  seemed  for  a  moment  the  woman 
of  the  alcove  [Page  103] 


THE  WOMAN 
IN  THE  ALCOVE 


BY 
JENNETTE    LEE 


£/<u-  ^  1~ 

ILLUSTRATED  BY  A.  I.  KELLER 
AND  ARTHUR  E.   BECHER 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
NEW  YORK     :    :     :    :    :     1914 


COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  September,  1914 


TO 
GERALD    STANLEY   LEE 


'I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master  play!' 


21.3084  S 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Wrapped  in  the  coat,  she  seemed  for  a  mo- 
ment the  woman  of  the  alcove    .    Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

She  seemed  to  sit  in  a  dream 10 

She  was  weeping,  deep  silent  sobs    ....       40 

So  she  was  like  this — very  still  and  happy — 

and  he  was  shut  out 108 


I 

"Room  after  room, 
I  hunt  the  house  through 
We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her — 
Next  time,  herself! — not  the  trouble  behind  her 
Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume! 
As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice-wreath  blossomed  anew; 
Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

II 

"Yet  the  day  wears 
And  door  succeeds  door; 
I  try  the  fresh  fortune — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 
Still  the  same  chance!     She  goes  out  as  I  enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest, — who  cares? 
But  'tis  twilight,  you  see — with  such  suites  to  explore, 
Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune." 


T^LDRIDGE  WALCOTT  paused 
•*— '  in  front  of  the  great  building;  he 
looked  up  and  hesitated  and  went  in. 
He  crossed  the  marble  lobby  and  passed 
through  the  silent,  swinging  doors  on 
the  opposite  side  and  stepped  into 
a  softly  lighted  cafe.  He  had  never 
been  in  Merwin's  before,  though  he 
had  often  heard  of  it,  and  he  was  curi- 
ous as  to  what  it  would  be  like.  There 
was  a  sound  of  music  somewhere  and 
low  voices  and  the  tinkle  of  silver  and 
glass  behind  the  little  green  curtains. 
He  entered  an  alcove  at  the  left  and 
sat  down.  The  restfulness  of  the  place 


THE  WOMAN 

soothed  him.  and  he  sat  listening  to 
the  distant  music  and  looking  out  be- 
tween the  parted  curtains  of  the  alcove 
to  the  room  with  its  little  tables  filling 
the  space  beyond  the  green-curtained 
alcoves  on  either  side  and  the  people 
seated  at  the  tables.  They  were  laugh- 
ing and  eating  and  talking  and  drink- 
ing from  delicate  cups  or  turning  slen- 
der-stemmed glasses  in  their  fingers  as 
they  talked.  Beyond  the  tables  rose 
a  small  platform;  a  woman  had  just 
mounted  it  and  was  bowing  to  the 
scattered  tables.  The  sound  of  voices 
ceased  an  instant  and  hands  clapped 
faintly  here  and  there.  The  woman  on 
the  platform  bowed  again  and  looked 
at  the  accompanist,  who  struck  the 
opening  bars.  It  was  a  light,  trivial 
song  with  more  personality  than  art 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

in  the  singing  of  it,  and  the  audience 
applauded  perfunctorily,  hardly  break- 
ing off  its  talk  to  acknowledge  that  it 
was  done.  The  woman  stepped  down 
from  the  platform  and  joined  a  group 
at  a  table  near  by,  and  waiters  moved 
among  the  tables,  refilling  cups  and 
glasses  and  taking  orders. 

A  waiter  paused  by  the  alcove  where 
Eldridge  Walcott  was  sitting  and 
pushed  back  the  little  curtain  and 
looked  in  and  waited.  Eldridge  took 
up  the  card  on  the  table  before  him; 
he  fingered  it  a  little  awkwardly  and 
laid  it  down.  "Bring  me  cigars,"  he 
said. 

The  waiter  scribbled  on  a  card  and 
passed  on.  When  he  had  completed 
the  alcoves  on  the  left  he  turned  and 
went  back  along  the  right,  pausing  be- 


THE  WOMAN 

fore  each  one  and  bending  forward  to 
listen  and  take  the  order  on  his  card. 
As  he  approached  the  third  alcove  he 
pushed  back  the  curtain  that  half 
concealed  it  at  the  back  and  bent  for- 
ward. When  he  passed  on  the  curtain 
did  not  fall  into  place;  it  remained 
caught  on  the  back  of  the  seat.  From 
where  Eldridge  sat  he  could  see  the 
woman  seated  in  the  alcove.  She  was 
alone,  her  back  to  him,  her  head  a 
little  bent  as  if  in  thought. 

He  glanced  at  her  carelessly  and 
along  the  row  of  green  curtains  to  the 
tables  beyond.  It  was  all  much  as  he 
had  imagined  it  —  a  place  where  one 
could  spend  time  and  money  without 
too  much  exertion.  It  was  the  money 
part  of  it  that  interested  Eldridge. 
His  client  had  asked  him  to  look  into 

4 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

it  for  him  as  an  investment,  and  he 
had  decided  on  this  informal  way  of 
appraising  it.  To-morrow  he  was  to 
go  over  the  books  and  accounts.  The 
owners  wanted  a  stiff  price  for  the  good- 
will. It  was  probably  worth  what 
they  were  asking  he  decided  as  he 
watched  the  careless,  happy  crowd. 
People  who  came  here  were  not  think- 
ing how  much  they  could  save.  .  .  . 
It  was  not  the  sort  of  place  he  should 
care  to  come  to  often  himself.  Life 
to  Eldridge  was  a  serious,  drab  affair 
compared  with  Merwin's.  He  liked  to 
think  how  much  he  could  save;  and 
when  he  had  saved  it  he  liked  to  in- 
vest it  where  it  would  breed  more. 
.  .  .  He  might  take  a  few  shares  of  the 
capital  stock  himself — his  client  had 
suggested  it. 


THE  WOMAN 

The  waiter  brought  the  cigars  and 
Eldridge  lighted  one  and  leaned  back, 
smoking  and  enjoying  the  relaxed  air 
of  the  place.  He  could  understand 
dimly  how  people  liked  this  sort  of 
thing  and  would  come  day  after  day 
for  music  and  talk  and  the  purpose- 
lessness  of  it  all;  it  was  a  kind  of  huge, 
informal  club  with  a  self-elected  mem- 
bership. 

As  a  prospective  investor  the  charm 
of  it  pleased  him.  They  ought  to  be 
able  to  make  a  good  thing  of  it.  He 
fell  to  making  little  calculations;  it 
was  part  of  his  power  as  a  successful 
man  of  business  that  he  understood 
detail  and  the  value  of  small  things. 

He  was  not  a  financier,  but  he  han- 
dled small  interests  well  and  he  had 
built  up  a  comfortable  fortune.  From 

6 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

being  in  debt  before  he  married,  he 
had  advanced  slowly  until  now  his  in- 
vestments made  a  good  showing.  He 
could  probably  live  on  the  income 
to-morrow  if  he  chose.  ...  He  blew 
a  little  ring  of  smoke.  .  .  .  His  in- 
vestments and  what  they  were  mount- 
ing to  was  a  kind  of  epic  poem  to  El- 
dridge's  slow-moving  mind.  .  .  .  Yes 
—  he  would  take  a  few  shares  of  the 
cafe  stock.  He  looked  thoughtfully  at 
his  cigar  and  calculated  how  many,  and 
what  they  would  be  worth.  .  .  .  The 
music  had  taken  the  form  of  a  young 
boy  with  a  violin  who  stood  absorbed 
in  his  playing,  a  kind  of  quick  fervor 
in  his  face  and  figure.  The  voices  had 
ceased  and  only  now  and  then  a  cup 
clicked. 

Eldridge  lifted   his   eyes   from  the 

7 


THE  WOMAN 

cigar.  The  woman  in  the  alcove  had 
moved  nearer  the  end  of  the  seat  and 
was  watching  the  boy,  her  lips  parted 
on  a  half  smile. 

The  cigar  dropped  from  Eldridge's 
fingers.  He  stared  at  the  woman  — 
stared  —  and  stirred  vaguely. 

She  turned  a  little  and  Eldridge 
reached  out  his  hand  and  drew  a  quick 
curtain  between  them. 

Through  the  slit  he  could  still  see 
the  figure  of  the  woman,  her  head 
thrown  a  little  back,  her  eyes  follow- 
ing the  bow  of  music  as  it  rose  and 
fell,  and  the  lips  smiling  in  happy  con- 
tent —  He  drew  a  quick  breath. 

Slowly  a  deep  flush  came  into  his 
face-  How  dared  Rosalind  come 
here!  It  was  a  respectable  place  — 
of  course  —  but  how  dared  she  spend 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

her  time  and  money  —  his  money  and 
time  that  belonged  to  her  home  and 
her  children  —  in  a  place  like  this  ?  .  .  . 
Her  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap,  and 
her  eyes  followed  the  music. 

She  had  barely  touched  the  glass  on 
the  table  before  her,  he  noted,  or  the 
plate  of  little  biscuit.  She  seemed  to 
sit  in  a  dream.  .  .  .  His  mind  whirled. 
Six  hours  before  he  had  said  good-by 
to  her  at  the  breakfast  table  —  a  plain, 
drab  woman  in  shabby  clothes,  with 
steel-rimmed  spectacles  that  looked  at 
him  with  a  little  line  between  the  eyes 
and  reminded  him  that  he  needed  to 
order  coal  for  the  range  and  a  new 
clothes-line.  .  .  .  He  had  ordered  the 
coal,  but  he  recalled  suddenly  that  he 
had  forgotten  the  clothes-line;  he  had 
intended  to  see  if  he  could  get  one 

9 


THE  WOMAN 

cheaper  at  a  wholesale  place  he  knew 
of;  his  memory  held  the  clothes-line 
fast  in  the  left  lobe  of  his  brain  while 
the  grey  matter  of  the  right  lobe 
whirled  excitedly  about  the  woman  in 
the  alcove. 

She  had  raised  a  lorgnette  to  her 
eyes  and  was  looking  at  the  boy  vio- 
linist, a  little,  happy,  wistful  smile  on 
her  lips.  .  .  .  Eldridge  had  not  seen 
her  smile  like  that  for  years.  His  left 
lobe  abandoned  the  clothes-line  and 
recalled  to  him  when  it  was  he  saw 
the  little  smile,  half  wistful,  half  happy, 
on  her  face.  .  .  .  They  were  standing 
by  the  gate,  and  he  was  saying  good 
night;  the  moon  had  just  come  up, 
and  there  was  a  fragrant  bush  beside 
the  path  that  gave  out  the  smell  of 
spring;  the  left  lobe  yielded  up  fra- 


10 


She  seemed  to  sit  in  a  dream 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

grance  and  moonlight  and  the  little 
wistful  smile  while  his  quick  eye  fol- 
lowed the  lorgnette;  it  had  dropped 
to  her  lap,  and  her  hands  were  folded 
on  it.  ...  Rosalind  —  !  A  gold 
lorgnette  —  and  draperies,  soft,  gauzy 
lines  and  folds  of  silk  —  and  a  hat  on 
her  shining,  lifted  hair,  like  a  vague 
coronet!  Eldridge  Walcott  held  his 
cigar  grimly  between  his  teeth;  the 
cigar  had  gone  out  —  both  lobes  had 
ceased  to  whirl.  ...  A  kind  of  frozen 
light  held  his  face.  His  hand  groped 
for  his  hat.  Why  should  he  not  step 
across  the  aisle  and  sit  down  in  the 
chair  opposite  her  and  confront  her  ?  — 
the  green  curtains  would  shut  them  in. 
.  .  .  Both  lobes  stared  at  the  thought 
and  held  it  tight  —  to  face  Rosalind, 
a  grey,  frightened  woman  in  her  fin- 


THE  WOMAN 

ery,  behind  the  little  green  curtains! 
He  shook  himself  loose  and  stood  up. 
Softly  his  hand  drew  back  the  curtain, 
and  he  stepped  out.  They  were  clap- 
ping the  boy  violinist,  who  had  played 
to  the  end,  and  Eldridge  moved  to- 
ward the  swinging  doors  and  passed 
out  and  stood  in  the  lobby.  He  wiped 
his  forehead.  ...  A  sound  of  mov- 
ing chairs  came  from  behind  the  doors, 
and  he  crossed  the  lobby  quickly  and 
plunged  into  the  crowd.  It  was  five 
o'clock,  and  the  streets  were  filled  with 
people  hurrying  home.  Eldridge  turned 
against  the  tide  and  crossed  a  side 
street  and  pressed  east,  his  feet  seem- 
ing to  find  a  way  of  their  own.  He 
was  not  thinking  where  he  would  go 
-  except  that  it  must  be  away  from 
her.  He  could  not  face  her  yet  — 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

Who  was  she?  There  was  the  drab 
woman  of  the  morning,  waiting  for 
him  to  come  home  with  the  clothes- 
line, and  there  was  the  woman  of  the 
alcove,  splendid,  gentle,  with  the  little 
smile  and  the  gold  lorgnette.  .  .  . 
Rosalind  —  Fifteen  years  he  had  lived 
with  her,  and  he  had  known  hertenyears 
before  that  —  there  was  nothing  queer 
about  Rosalind!  He  lifted  his  head  a 
little  proudly —  The  woman  he  had 
just  left  was  very  beautiful!  It  struck 
him  for  the  first  time  that  she  was 
beautiful,  and  he  half  stopped. 

He  walked  more  slowly,  taking  it  in 
—  Rosalind  was  not  beautiful;  she  had 
not  been  beautiful  —  even  as  a  girl  — 
only  pretty,  with  a  kind  of  freshness 
and  freedom  about  her  and  something 

in  her  eyes  that  he  had  not  under- 
13 


THE  WOMAN 

stood —    It  was   the   look  that   had 
drawn  him  — 

He  was  always  wondering  about  it. 
Sometimes  he  saw  it  in  the  night  —  as 
if  it  flitted  when  he  woke.  He  had 
not  thought  of  it  for  years.  Some- 
thing in  the  woman's  shoulder  and  the 
line  of  her  head  was  like  it.  But  the 
woman  was  very  beautiful! —  Sup- 
pose it  were  not  Rosalind  after  all! 
He  gave  a  quick  breath,  and  his  feet 
halted  and  went  on.  Then  a  thought 
surged  at  him,  and  he  walked  fast  — 
he  almost  ran.  No —  No — !  It  was 
as  if  he  put  his  hands  over  his  ears  to 
shut  it  out.  Other  women  —  but  not 
his  wife !  She  had  children  —  three 
children!  He  tried  to  think  of  the 
children  to  steady  himself.  He  pic- 
tured her  putting  them  to  bed  at 
14 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

night,  bending  above  Tommie  and 
winding  a  flannel  bandage  tight  around 
his  throat  for  croup;  he  could  see  her 
quite  plainly,  the  quick,  efficient  fingers 
and  firm,  roughened  hands  drawing 
the  bed-clothes  in  place  and  tucking 
them  in.  ...  The  woman's  hands 
had  rested  so  quietly  in  her  lap !  Were 
they  rough? —  She  had  worn  gloves 
—  he  remembered  now  —  soft  gloves, 
like  the  color  in  her  gown.  ...  He 
stared  at  the  gloves  —  they  were  long  — 
they  came  to  the  elbow  —  yes,  there 
was  a  kind  of  soft,  lacy  stuff  that  fell 
away  from  them  —  yes,  they  were  long 

gloves.  .  .  .     They  must  have  cost 

He  tried  to  think  what  the  gloves  must 
have  cost,  but  he  had  nothing  to  go 
by.  Rosalind  had  never  worn  such 
gloves,  nor  his  mother  or  sisters.  Only 


THE  WOMAN 

women  who  were  very  rich  wore  gloves 
like  that  —  or  women 

He  faced  the  thought  at  last.  He 
had  come  out  where  the  salt  air  struck 
him;  the  town  and  its  lights  had  fallen 
behind;  there  was  the  marsh  to  cross, 
and  he  was  on  a  long  beach,  the  wind 
in  his  face,  the  water  rolling  up  in 
spray  and  sweeping  slowly  back  — 

He  strode  forward,  his  head  to  the 
wind.  .  .  .  There  was  no  one  that 
she  knew  —  no  man.  .  .  .  How  should 
she  know  any  one  that  he  did  not  know! 
She  was  never  away.  .  .  .  But  was 
he  —  sure !  How  did  he  know  what 
went  on  —  all  day  .  .  .  half  past  seven 
till  seven  at  night?  In  the  evenings 
she  mended  the  children's  clothes  and 
he  looked  over  the  paper.  Sometimes 
they  talked  about  things  and  planned 

16 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

how  they  could  get  along.  Rosalind 
was  a  good  manager.  He  saw  her 
sitting  beside  the  lamp,  in  her  cheap 
dress,  her  head  bent  over  the  figures, 
working  it  out  with  him  —  and  he  saw 
the  woman  in  the  alcove  —  the  clothes 
she  wore  —  he  drew  back  before  it  — 
more  than  the  whole  family  spent  in 
a  year!  .  .  .  The  gloves  alone  might 
have  bought  her  Sunday  suit  —  Sun- 
day was,  after  all,  the  only  day  he 
knew  where  she  was  —  in  church  with 
him  and,  in  the  afternoon,  lying  down 
in  her  room  while  he  took  the  chil- 
dren for  a  walk.  ...  He  was  a  good 
father  —  he  set  his  teeth  to  it  defiantly, 
against  the  wind.  She  could  not  ac- 
cuse him  of  neglect.  .  .  .  Suddenly  a 
hurt  feeling  stirred  somewhere  deep 

down —    He  did  not  look  at  it;    he 
17 


THE  WOMAN 

did  not  know  it  was  there.  But  the 
first  shock  had  passed.  He  was  not 
bewildered  any  more.  He  could  think 
steadily,  putting  point  to  point,  build- 
ing up  the  "case".  .  .  .  Then,  sud- 
denly, he  would  see  her  in  the  great 
spectacles,  reminding  him  of  the 
clothes-line  —  and  his  "case"  collapsed 
like  a  foolish  little  card  house.  .  .  . 
Not  Rosalind  —  other  women,  perhaps 
—  but  not  Rosalind.  .  .  .  He  turned 
slowly  back,  the  wind  behind  him  urg- 
ing him  on.  He  would  go  home  —  to 
her.  Perhaps  when  he  saw  her  he 
should  know  what  to  think.  .  .  .  But 
perhaps  she  had  not  yet  come  home. 
If  he  hurried  he  might  get  there  be- 
fore her  and  face  her  as  she  came  in. 
He  hurried  fast,  he  almost  ran,  and 
when  he  reached  the  streets  he  signalled 

18 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

a  cab;  he  had  not  used  a  cab  for  years; 
it  would  cost  a  dollar,  at  least  —  He 
looked  out  at  the  half-deserted  street 
—  the  crowd  had  thinned.  He  held 
his  watch  where  the  light  of  the  street 
arc  flashed  across  it  —  six-thirty.  Half 
an  hour  before  his  usual  time.  He 
paid  the  fare  and  went  quickly  up  the 
steps.  .  .  .  The  children  were  talk- 
ing in  the  dining-room.  There  was 
no  other  sound.  He  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in.  She  was  standing  by 
the  table  looking  at  Tommie's  coat  — 
There  was  a  rent  in  the  shoulder  and 
the  face  bent  above  it  had  a  look  of 
quiet  patience  —  The  grey-drab  hair 
was  parted  exactly  in  the  middle  and 
combed  smoothly  down;  the  eyes  be- 
hind the  spectacles  looked  up  —  with 

the  little  line  between  them.     When 
19 


THE  WOMAN 

she  saw  who  it  was  she  glanced  for  a 
moment  at  the  clock  and  then  back  at 
him —  "Did  you  bring  the  clothes- 
line?" she  asked. 

He  stared  at  her  a  moment  —  at  her 
plain,  cheap  dress  and  homely  face. 
Then  he  turned  away.  "I  —  forgot," 
he  said. 


20 


II 


TT7HEN  supper  was  done  and  the 
*  »  children  in  bed  she  moved  about 
the  room  for  a  few  minutes  putting 
things  to  rights.  Eldridge,  sitting  by 
the  table,  held  his  newspaper  in  his 
hand  and  now  and  then  he  rustled  it 
and  turned  it  over;  his  eyes  did  not 
leave  the  little  black  printed  marks, 
but  his  real  eyes  were  not  following  the 
marks;  they  were  watching  the  wo- 
man; they  tried  to  dart  upon  her  in  her 
plainness  and  make  her  speak.  There 
was  something  monstrous  to  him  — 
that  they  should  be  here  together,  in 
this  room  —  he  could  have  touched 
her  with  his  hand  as  she  moved  past 


21 


THE  WOMAN 

him  —  yet  they  were  a  thousand  miles 
apart.  He  cleared  his  throat;  he 
would  force  her,  accuse  her,  make  her 
reveal  what  was  going  on  behind  the 
earnest-looking  glasses.  .  .  .  He  turned 
the  paper  and  began  another  page.  .  .  . 
If  he  were  another  man  he  might 
spring  at  her  —  take  her  by  the  throat 
—  force  her  back  —  back  against  the 
wall  —  and  make  her  speak!  She  had 
finished  tidying  the  room  and  came 
over  to  the  table,  the  torn  coat  in  her 
hand;  she  was  looking  down  at  the 
frayed  threads  in  the  rent,  the  little 
line  between  her  eyes;  he  did  not  look 
up  or  move;  he  could  hear  her  breath- 
ing —  then  she  gave  a  little  sigh  and 
laid  the  coat  on  the  table.  .  .  .  She 
was  leaving  the  room.  His  eyes  leaped 
after  her  and  came  back. 

22 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

When  she  returned  she  spread  the 
roll  of  pieces  on  the  table  and  selected 
one,  slipping  it  in  beneath  the  rent; 
he  could  see  —  without  taking  his  eyes 
from  the  page  —  he  could  see  the 
anxious,  faintly  red  knuckles  and  her 
fingers  fitting  the  piece  in  place  with 
deft,  roughened  tips.  She  had  a  kind 
of  special  skill  at  mending,  making  old 
things  new.  When  they  were  first 
married  it  had  been  one  of  their  little 
jokes  —  how  lucky  she  was  to  have 
married  a  poor  man.  He  had  kissed 
her  fingers  one  day  —  he  recalled  it  — 
when  she  had  shown  him  the  little  skil- 
ful darn  in  his  coat;  he  had  called  it 
a  kind  of  poem  and  he  had  kissed  her. 
It  seemed  almost  shameless  to  him, 
behind  his  paper  —  the  foolishness  was 

shameless — of  kissing  her  for  that.  .  .  . 

23 


THE  WOMAN 

She  was  sewing  swiftly  now  with  the 
short,  still  movements  that  came  and 
went  like  breaths;  her  head  was  bent 
over  the  coat  and  he  could  see  the 
parting  of  her  hair;  he  dropped  his 
eye  to  it  for  a  minute  and  rustled  the 
paper  and  turned  it  vaguely.  "I  was 
in  at  Merwin's  this  afternoon,"  he 
said. 

The  needle  paused  a  dart  —  and 
went  on  rhythmically,  in  and  out. 
"Did  you  like  it?"  she  asked.  She 
had  not  lifted  her  head  from  her 
work. 

He  turned  a  casual  page  and  read 
on —  "Oh,  so-so."  It  was  the  sort 
of  absent-minded  talk  they  often  had 
—  a  kind  of  thinking  out  loud  with- 
out interest  in  one  another. 

"It   is  a  popular   place,   isn't   it?" 

24 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

She  was  smoothing  the  edges  of  the 
patch  thoughtfully;  there  was  a  little 
smile  on  her  lip. 

He  folded  his  paper.  "I'm  going  to 
bed,"  he  announced. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  the  clock  and 
resumed  her  work.  "I  must  finish 
this.  He  hasn't  any  other  to  wear." 
The  needle  went  in  and  out. 

Eldridge  rose  and  stretched  himself 
above  her.  He  looked  down  at  her  — 
at  the  swift-moving  hands  and  grey 
closeness  of  her  dress.  He  would  like 
to  take  her  in  his  hands  and  crush  out 
of  her  the  thoughts  —  make  her  speak 
out  the  thoughts  that  followed  the 
swift-going  needle;  he  did  not  know 
that  he  wanted  this  —  he  was  only 
feeling  over  and  over,  in  some  deep, 

angry  place —     "What  the  devil  was 

25 


THE  WOMAN 

she  doing  there  ?  What  the " 

over  and  over. 

He  moved  about  the  room  a  min- 
ute and  went  out.  The  woman  by 
the  table  sewed  on.  A  bolt  shot  in  the 
front  hall  and  Eldridge's  feet  mounted 
the  stairs  slowly.  Then  the  room  was 
quiet  —  only  the  clock  and  the  needle. 

Presently  the  needle  stopped  —  the 
woman's  hands  lay  folded  in  her  lap. 
The  figure  was  motionless,  the  head 
bent  —  only  across  her  face  moved  the 
little  smile.  .  .  .  The  clock  travelled 
round  and  whirred  its  warning  note 
and  struck,  and  she  only  stirred  a  lit- 
tle, as  if  a  breath  escaped  her,  and  took 
up  her  work,  looking  at  it  blindly. 

A  sound  came  in  the  hall  and  she 
looked  up. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  old 

26 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

dressing-gown  wrapped  around  him, 
his  hands  gaunt,  with  the  little  hairs 
at  the  wrist  uncovered  by  cuffs. 

She  looked  at  him,  smiling  absently. 
There  was  something  almost  beautiful 
in  her  face  as  she  lifted  it  to  him  — 

"When  are  you  coming  to  bed?" 
he  asked  harshly. 

"Why,  right  now,  Eldridge  —  I  must 
have  been  dreaming/'  She  gathered 
up  the  work  from  her  lap.  "I  hope  I 
haven't  kept  you  awake." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  a  minute. 
Then  he  wheeled  about  without  re- 
sponse. His  feet  beneath  the  bath 
gown  moved  awkwardly.  But  the 
spine  in  the  bath  gown  had  a  cold, 
dignified,  offended  look  —  a  kind  of 
grotesque  stateliness — as  it  disappeared 

through  the  doorway. 

27 


THE  WOMAN 

The  woman  looked  after  it,  the  lit- 
tle, gathering  smile  still  on  her  face. 
Then  she  turned  toward  the  lamp  and 
put  it  out,  and  the  radiant  smile  close 
to  the  lamp  became  a  part  of  the  dark. 


Ill 

BY  morning  it  had  become  a  dream. 
Eldridge  was  late  and  he  hurried 
from  the  house  and  hurried  all  the 
morning  to  catch  up.  By  luncheon 
time  he  was  in  another  world.  He 
took  plenty  of  time  for  his  luncheon; 
it  was  one  of  the  things  he  had  learned 

—  to  eat  his  luncheon  slowly  and  take 
time  to  digest  it.     Sometimes  he  read 
the  paper,  sometimes  he  dropped  into 
a  moving-picture  show  for  a  few  min- 
utes afterward.      But    to-day  he   did 
neither.     He    sat    in    the    restaurant 

—  it   was    a    crowded    restaurant,   all 
America  coming  and  going  —  and  he 

watched   it   idly.     He   had   a   rested, 
29 


THE  WOMAN 

comfortable  feeling,  as  if  he  had  es- 
caped some  calamity.  It  seemed  fool- 
ish now,  as  he  looked  back  —  a  kind  of 
fever  in  the  blood  that  had  twisted  the 
commonest  things  into  queer  shape. 
He  looked  back  over  it  dispassionately 

—  it  was  the  woman  in  Merwin's  who 
had  started  it,  of  course;    there  was 
something  about  her  —  something  like 
Rosalind  —  curiously  like  her  —  it  was 
like  what  Rosalind  might  have  been, 
more    than   what    she   was  —  a    kind 
of   spirited-up    Rosalind!    He    smiled 
grimly. 

He  called  for  his  check;  and  while 
he  waited  he  saw  her  again,  the  figure 
of  the  woman  —  not  in  the  restaurant 

—  but  in  a  kind  of  vision  —  in  the  al- 
cove behind  the  curtain,  her  head  a 
little  bent,  her   hands  folded   quietly 

3° 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

in  her  lap  ...  who  was  she  —  ?    His 
heart  gave  a  sudden  twist  and  stopped 

—  He  had  never  felt  like  this  about 

—  any  one  —  had  he  ?   He  looked  down 
at  a  red  check,  with  its  stamped  black 
figures,  and  fumbled  in  his  pocket  — 
and  brought  out  a  coin  and  laid  it  be- 
side the  check  and  stared  at  it.  ... 
The  check  and  the  coin  slipped  away 
and    he   stared    at    the    marble    top. 
Suppose  he  saw  her  —  again  .  .  .  some 
time.  .  .  .  Two  coins  reappeared  on 
the  table  and  he  picked  them  up.  Then 
he  put  back  one  and  felt  for  his  hat 
and  went  out.  .  .  .    The  traffic  shrieked 
at  him  and  people  jostled  him  with 
their  elbows  and  hurried  him,  and  he 
jostled  back  and  woke  up  and  shook 
off  the  queerness  and  went  about  his 

work.  ...     He   was   forty-one   years 
31 


THE  WOMAN 

old  and  his  property  was  all  well  in- 
vested. It  had  never  occurred  to  him 
that  he  could  be  different  from  him- 
self. ...  He  read  in  the  paper  of 
people  who  did  things  —  did  things 
different  from  themselves,  suddenly  — 
people  who  squandered  fortunes  in  a 
day,  or  murdered  and  ran  away  from 
business  —  and  their  wives  —  people 
who  committed  suicide.  Vicariously, 
he  knew  all  about  how  queer  men 
could  be  ...  and  his  chief  experi- 
ence with  it  all,  with  this  world  that 
his  newspaper  rolled  before  him  every 
day,  was  a  kind  of  wonder  that  people 
would  do  such  things  and  a  knowledge, 
deeper  than  faith  or  conviction,  that 
Eldridge  Walcott  would  never  do  any 
of  them.  He  explained  such  men  —  if 

he  explained  them  at  all  —  by  saying 

32 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

that  they  must  have  a  screw  loose 
somewhere.  Perhaps  he  thought  of 
men,  vaguely,  as  put  together  with 
works  inside,  carefully  adjusted  and 
screwed  in  place,  warranted,  with  good 
usage,  to  run  so  long;  certainly  it  had 
not  occurred  to  him  that  a  man  could 
change  much  after  he  was  forty  years 
old. 

He  went  back  to  business  refreshed, 
more  refreshed  than  his  luncheon  often 
left  him.  He  thought  of  Rosalind, 
now  and  then,  with  a  kind  of  thank- 
fulness —  Rosalind  waiting  for  him  at 
night  with  the  children,  life  moving 
on  in  the  same  comfortable  way.  He 
had  even  a  moment's  flash  of  thankful- 
ness to  the  unknown  woman  that  she 
had  made  him  see  how  comfortable  he 
was,  how  much  he  had  to  be  thankful 

33 


THE  WOMAN 

for  in  his  quiet  life.  It  was  a  profit- 
able afternoon  —  the  best  stroke  of 
business  in  six  months;  and  he  flat- 
tered himself  that  he  handled  it  well. 
He  felt  unusually  alive,  alert.  On  the 
way  home  he  passed  a  florist's  and 
half  stopped,  looking  down  at  a  beau- 
tiful plant  that  flamed  on  a  bench  out- 
side the  door;  he  did  not  know  what 
it  was;  they  were  all  "plants"  to  him, 
except  roses  —  he  knew  a  rose  —  this 
was  not  a  rose;  he  looked  at  it  a  mo- 
ment and  hurried  on.  ...  She  would 
think  it  strange  if  he  brought  her  any- 
thing like  a  plant. 

The  idea  grew  with  him  the  next 
day  and  the  next.  Why  should  he  not 
give  her  something?  She  deserved  it. 
There  seemed  always  some  good  rea- 
son why  her  clothes  were  the  last  to 

34 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

be  bought  and  the  plainest  and  shab- 
biest —  and  a  woman's  clothes  could 
always  be  made  over.  .  .  .  Suppose 
she  had  a  new  suit  —  something  that 
was  really  good  —  Suppose  he  got  it 
for  her  —  would  she  be  in  the  least  like 
that  —  other  —  one  —  ?  He  had  long 
ago  abandoned  the  idea  that  there  was 
a  real  resemblance  between  them.  He 
knew  now  that  he  must  have  been 
overwrought,  excited  in  some  mysteri- 
ous way  —  the  woman  herself  seemed 
to  have  excited  him. 

The  wrong  that  he  had  done  Rosa- 
lind —  even  in  his  thought  —  made 
him  tender  of  her.  He  did  not  buy  a 
crimson  flower  to  take  home  to  her. 
But  a  week  later  he  called  one  day  at 
his  bank  and  in  the  evening  he  handed 
her  a  little,  twisted  roll  of  something. 

35 


THE  WOMAN 

She  had  finished  her  work  and  was 
sitting  for  a  minute  before  she  brought 
her  sewing  basket.  He  laid  the  roll  in 
the  curve  of  her  fingers  in  her  lap. 

When  she  glanced  down  at  it  she 
took  it  up  in  short-sighted  surprise  and 
looked  at  the  new,  crisp  bills  —  and 
then  at  him  - 

He  nodded.  "For  you,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  new  suit  —  you  need  it."  He 
balanced  a  little  on  his  toes,  looking 
down  at  her. 

Her  face  flushed  red;  it  grew  from 
neck  to  chin  and  flooded  up  to  him. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said  under 
her  breath. 

"  I  want  you  to  get  a  good  one  — 
good  stuff,  good  dressmaker  —  It 's 
enough,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  more  —  than  enough  — "  The 

36 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

red  had  flooded  her  face  again  —  as  if 
she  would  cry.  But  she  said  nothing 
for  a  minute.  She  was  looking  down 
at  the  bills. 

Then  she  looked  up.  The  plain  face 
had  a  smile  like  light  from  somewhere 
far  away.  "May  I  get  just  what  I 
like--?" 

He  nodded  proudly.  She  was  al- 
most beautiful  .  .  .  perhaps  —  in  the 
new  gown —  He  pulled  himself  to- 
gether. .  .  .  She  had  looked  down 
again  and  was  fingering  the  bills  hap- 
pily. .  .  .  "There  is  a  little  muff  and 
fur — "  she  said. 

He  nodded,  encouraging  — 

"A  muff  and  fur  and  a  little  fur  cap 
that  I  wanted  —  so  much  —  for  Mary 
- —  and  overcoats  for  the  boys  —  they  're 
so  shabby  —  and  your  hat  is  really  not 

37 


THE  WOMAN 

fit,  you  know  — "  She  was  looking  up 
now  and  smiling  and  checking  them 
off- 

He  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 
"You  are  to  spend  it  on  yourself,"  he 
said  almost  harshly. 

"On  myself —  !  Why  do  you  say 
that?"  She  almost  confronted  him — • 
as  if  she  caught  her  breath  — 

"You  never  have  things  and  you 
always  get  out  of  spending  things  on 
yourself."  He  half  muttered  the  words. 

"Oh  —  oh — !  I  shall  get  some- 
thing for  myself.  You  will  see!" 

He  held  out  his  hand.  He  was  a 
good  man  of  business.  No  one  got 
far  ahead  of  him. — "When  you  have 
bought  the  dress  I  will  pay  for  it,"  he 
said.  "Give  them  to  me.  I  cannot 

trust  you  with  them." 

38 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

She  looked  at  him  —  and  at  the  bills 

—  and  they  dropped  from  her  hand 
into  his  slowly  and  her  arms  fell;  her 
shoulders  rose  and  trembled  and  the 
hands    covered    her    face.      She    was 
weeping,  deep,  silent  sobs  — 

He  bent  over  her  —  ashamed.  "You 
must  not  do  that,"  he  said.  ''You 
needn't  feel  bad.  I  wanted  you  to 
have  it — " 

She  took  down  her  hands  and  looked 
at  him.  "It  seemed  so  good  to  have 

—  enough  —  more   than   enough !     to 
be  extravagant!"    She  threw  out  her 
hands  with  a  little  wasteful  gesture. 

He  was  looking  at  her  closely.  A 
suspicion  leaped  at  him.  Her  face  was 
so  free  and  the  tears  had  made  it 
mysterious  and  sweet  —  she  was  as 
wonderful  as  that  other  —  she  was  — 

39 


THE  WOMAN 

She  was  —  He  stopped  with  a  quick 
jerk.  "I  want  you  to  be  extravagant 
on  yourself !"  he  said.  He  was  watch- 
ing her  face. 

It  flamed  again  but  it  did  not  drop 
before  him.  Only  the  eyes  sent  back 
a  look  —  on  guard,  it  seemed  to  him. 
"I  do  not  need  so  much  for  myself," 
she  said  quietly,  "part  of  it  will  be 
quite  enough." 

He  put  the  bills  in  his  pocket.  "All 
or  nothing,"  he  said  easily. 

All  the  next  day  he  turned  it  in  his 
mind  —  the  look  in  her  eyes,  the  beauty 
—  something  deep  within  her,  shining 
out.  .  .  .  He  no  longer  went  peace- 
fully about  his  work.  Could  it  have 
been  Rosalind,  after  all  ?  .  .  .  He  had 
never  seen  her  look  like  that  —  he  had 

40 


She  was  weeping,  deep  silent  sobs 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

not  dreamed.  .  .  .  But  when  he  came 
home  at  night  the  look  was  not  there; 
he  fancied  that  she  was  more  worn 
and  a  little  troubled.  Certainly,  no 
one  could  think  of  her  as  beautiful  .  .  . 
and  why  should  a  man  want  to  think 
his  wife  beautiful?  ...  It  was  the 
woman  in  the  alcove  that  had  done 
the  mischief.  He  should  never  get 
over  the  woman  in  the  alcove.  She 
had  got  into  his  life  whether  or  not. 
He  could  not  be  comfortable  about 
Rosalind.  There  was  something  about 
her  that  he  had  not  known  or  sus- 
pected before.  He  fell  to  watching 
her  when  she  was  not  aware.  He 
had  thought  he  knew  her  so  well  and 
now  she  was  a  stranger.  .  .  .  But 
perhaps  it  was  himself  —  the  woman 

had  done  something  to  him.     Rosa- 
41 


THE  WOMAN 

lind  was  the  same  —  but  was  she? 
He  looked  at  her  a  long  time  one  night 
as  she  lay  asleep.  The  moonlight  had 
come  in  and  was  on  her  face.  He 
watched  it  —  as  if  a  breath  might 
speak  to  him  —  it  was  not  Rosalind's 
face.  Some  stranger  was  there,  out  of 
a  strange  land;  a  great  yearning  came 
to  him  to  waken  her,  to  ask  her  whence 
she  came,  what  it  was  that  she  knew 
—  what  made  her  face  so  peaceful  in 
the  moonlight  —  calling  to  him  ?  He 
got  up  softly  and  closed  the  blind. 
He  remembered  he  had  heard  that  it 
was  not  good  for  people  to  sleep  with 
the  moon  shining  on  them  —  it  was 
only  superstition,  of  course.  But  su- 
perstition had  suddenly  changed  its 
bounds  for  him.  .  .  .  Were  there 

things,    perhaps,    that    people    knew, 

42 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

that  they  guessed  —  true  things  that 
they  could  not  explain  and  did  not 
talk  about?  . 


43 


IV 

HE    could    not    bring   himself   to 
speak  to  Rosalind  about  the  wo- 
man in  the  alcove.    He  wanted  to  speak 

—  to  do  away,  once  for  all,  with  the 
strangeness  and  the  spell  she  seemed 
to  have  cast  about  him,  to  speak  of 
her  casually  as  that  woman  I  saw  the 
other  day  at  Merwin's;  but  he  could 
not  do  it.     It  was  as  if  he  were  afraid 

—  or  bashful.     He  had  not  felt  like 
this  since  —  not  since  he  was  in  love 

—  with  Rosalind!    He  looked  at  the 
thought   and   turned   it   over   slowly. 
He  was  not  in  love  with  the  woman  — 
certainly  he  was  not  in  love  with  her! 
He  would  not  know  her  again  if  he 

44 


THE  WOMAN 

met  her  on  the  street.  .  .  .  Would  he 
not!  Suddenly  he  felt  that  he  had 
known  her  always  —  longer  than  he 
had  known  Rosalind  —  longer  than  he 
had  been  alive!  He  found  himself 
wondering  about  the  world  —  how  it 
was  the  world  got  into  existence  — 
what  were  men  doing  in  it  —  and  wo- 
men —  and  his  mind  travelled  out 
into  space  —  great  stars  swung  away 
mistily  —  what  did  it  mean  —  all  his 
world  and  stars?  .  .  .  Perhaps  if  he 
saw  her  again,  just  a  few  minutes,  he 
would  feel  like  himself  again.  ...  It 
was  worth  trying  —  and  how  he  wanted 
—  to  —  see  her !  Well,  what  of  that  ? 
There  was  nothing  wrong  in  being  cu- 
rious about  a  woman  like  that.  If 
she  had  some  uncanny  power  over  him 
he  might  as  well  find  it  out  —  fight  it ! 

45 


THE  WOMAN 

He  was  respectable  —  he  was  a  mar- 
ried man.  .  .  .  And  what  had  Rosa- 
lind to  do  with  it?  Perhaps  it  was 
Rosalind.  He  should  never  quiet  down 
till  he  knew.  There  was  something  in 
his  blood.  The  next  time  he  was  pass- 
ing Merwin's  he  would  go  in.  ... 

He  passed  Merwin's  that  afternoon 
—  and  went  in.  But  she  was  not  there. 
He  sat  a  little  while  in  the  quiet  of 
the  place,  looking  across  to  the  alcove 
where  the  woman  had  been.  There 
was  no  one  in  it  and  the  curtains  were 
drawn  back.  Each  time  a  stir  came 
from  the  swinging  doors  or  a  dress 
rustled  beside  him  he  half  turned  and 
held  his  breath  till  it  passed  and  took 
its  place  at  one  of  the  little  tables  or 
in  an  alcove.  But  the  third  alcove  on 

the  right  remained  empty.     No  quiet 

46 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

figure  moved  with  soft  grace  and  seated 
itself  there  ...  no  one  but  Eldridge 
saw  the  figure  —  the  gentle,  bending 
line  of  the  neck,  the  little  droop  of 
the  face.  ...  If  only  she  would  lift  it 
or  turn  to  him  a  minute.  .  .  .  And 
then  the  still,  clear  emptiness  of  the 
place  swept  between;  the  green  cur- 
tains framed  it,  as  if  it  were  a  pic- 
ture, a  little  antechamber  leading  some- 
where. .  .  . 

Eldridge  shook  himself  and  took  his 
hat  and  went  out.  The  doors  swung 
silently  behind  him  —  he  would  never 
go  in  there  again !  He  was  a  fool  —  a 
soft  fool!  Then  he  almost  stopped 
in  the  crowd  of  the  street.  .  .  .  And 
he  knew  suddenly  that  he  would  go 
back.  He  would  go  —  again  and  again 
—  he  could  not  help  himself.  But  he 

47 


THE  WOMAN 

was  not  in  love  —  he  had  been  in  love 
—  with  Rosalind  —  and  it  was  not  like 
this.  ...  A  policeman  thrust  out  an 
arm  and  stopped  him,  and  he  waited 
for  the  traffic  to  stream  past.  ...  He 
was  not  in  love  —  only  curious  about 
the  woman;  it  teased  him  not  to  know 
who  she  was  .  .  .  and  why  he  had 
been  so  sure  that  she  was  Rosalind. 
If  he  could  see  her  again  —  just  a 
minute  —  long  enough  to  make  sure, 
he  would  not  care  if  he  never  saw  her 
again.  He  was  loyal,  of  course,  to 
Rosalind,  more  loyal  than  he  had  ever 
been.  It  seemed  curious  how  the  woman 
had  made  him  see  Rosalind  —  all  the 
plainness  of  her  rilled  with  something 
strange  and  sweet  —  like  moonlight  or 
a  quiet  place. 


V 


THE  next  day  he  went  again  to 
Merwin's.  No  use  for  him  to 
say  he  would  keep  away.  He  knew, 
all  through  the  drudging  accounts  in 
the  morning,  that  he  would  go;  and 
while  he  talked  with  clients  and  ar- 
ranged sales  and  managed  a  real-es- 
tate deal  —  back  in  the  corner  of  his 
mind,  behind  its  green  curtains,  the 
little  alcove  waited. 

He  passed  through  the  swinging 
doors  and  glanced  quickly,  and  the 
hand  holding  his  hat  gripped  it  tight. 
The  curtains  of  the  third  alcove  to  the 
right  were  half  closed,  but  along  the 
floor  lay  a  fold  of  grey  dress  and  over 

49 


THE  WOMAN 

the  end  of  the  seat,  thrown  carelessly 
back,  hung  the  edge  of  a  fur-lined  wrap. 
Eldridge  turned  blindly  toward  his 
place.  Some  one  was  there.  He  had 
to  take  the  alcove  behind,  and  he 
could  not  see  her  from  the  alcove  be- 
hind —  not  even  if  she  should  push 
back  the  curtain  that  shut  her  away  — 
But  he  found  himself,  strangely,  not 
caring  to  see  her.  .  .  .  She  was  there, 
a  little  way  off;  it  was  she  —  no  need 
to  part  the  curtains  and  look  in  on  her. 
He  felt  her  presence  through  all  the 
place.  He  was  no  longer  guilty.  .  .  . 
He  was  hardly  curious  to  know  her. 
He  took  up  the  card  from  the  table 
before  him  and  studied  it  blindly.  .  .  . 
His  heart  seemed  to  lie  out  before 
him  —  a  clear,  white  place.  .  .  .  Men 

and  women  were  not   so   evil    as  he 

50 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

had  dreamed.  He  was  doing  some- 
thing that  a  week  ago  he  would  have 
condemned  any  one  for;  yet  his  heart, 
as  he  looked  into  it,  was  singularly 
clear  and  big  —  and  the  light  shining 
in  it  puzzled  him  —  like  a  charm  — 
It  was  a  place  that  he  had  never  seen; 
he  had  dreamed  of  it,  perhaps,  as  a 
child.  He  ordered  something,  at  ran- 
dom, from  the  card  and  moved  nearer 
the  aisle.  .  .  .  No,  he  could  not  see 
her  —  only  the  fold  of  her  dress  and 
the  bit  of  grey  fur.  He  was  glad  she 
was  warmly  dressed.  The  weather 
was  keener  to-day.  He  must  get 
Rosalind  a  wrap  —  something  warm 
like  that  and  lined  with  fur  —  soft 
and  grey  and  deep.  Everything  the 
woman  had  he  would  like  Rosalind 

to  have  —  perhaps  it  might  atone  —  a 

51 


THE  WOMAN 

little  —  for  the  light  in  his  heart.  He 
had  not  felt  like  this  for  Rosalind.  .  .  . 
But  how  should  they  have  known. 
They  were  only  a  boy  and  girl  —  and 
some  moonlight.  .  .  .  And  all  the 
time  this  other  woman  was  waiting 
—  somewhere.  .  .  .  No  one  had  told 
him.  If  some  one  had  said  to  him: 
"Wait,  she  is  coming  —  you  must 
wait!"  But  no  one  knew,  no  one  had 
told  him.  .  .  .  Did  she  know,  across 
there  in  her  place,  did  she  know  — 
had  she  waited  —  for  him  ?  He  stirred 
a  little.  Some  one  might  be  with  her 
now;  or  she  might  be  waiting  for  some 
one.  But  he  could  not  go  to  her.  .  .  . 
And  yet  —  why  not  —  ?  —  He  had 
only  to  cross  the  aisle  —  and  put  back 
the  curtains  —  and  look  at  her.  .  .  . 
He  shook  himself  and  lifted  his  glass 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

and  drank  grimly.  He  was  a  lawyer; 
his  name  was  Eldridge  Walcott;  he 
lived  in  a  brick  house  and  he  had 
children  —  three  children  —  That  was 
the  real  world;  this  other  thing  was 
—  madness.  ...  So  this  was  the  way 
men  felt !  This  was  it,  was  it  —  very 
clean  and  whole  —  as  if  life  were  be- 
ginning for  them  —  they  had  made 
mistakes,  but  they  would  try  again; 
they  saw  something  bigger  and  better 
than  they  had  ever  known  —  and  they 
reached  out  to  it.  Men  were  not 
wicked,  as  he  had  thought  —  It  was 
a  strange  world  where  you  had  to  be 
wicked  to  do  things  —  like  this !  .  .  . 
And  there  might  be  some  one  with  her 
now!  Under  the  voices  and  the  music 
he  fancied  he  could  hear  them  talking 
in  low  tones;  their  voices  seemed  to 

S3 


THE  WOMAN 

come  and  go  vaguely;  half  guessed,  not 
constant,  but  quiet  and  happy.  .  .  . 
Or  was  it  his  own  heart  that  beat  to 
her  —  the  words  it  could  speak  ?  .  .  . 
He  would  not  speak  to  her  —  but  he 
would  not  go  away.  .  .  .  He  would 
wait  till  she  moved  back  the  curtain 
and  stepped  out. 

Then  he  half  remembered  something 
—  and  looked  at  his  watch  —  he  had 
promised  Rosalind  to  wait  for  the  boys 
and  take  them  to  the  dentist's.  She 
had  said  she  could  not  go  this  after- 
noon and  he  had  promised  to  wait  at 
the  office;  he  had  not  meant  to  come 
here.  ...  He  slipped  back  the  watch 
and  stood  up  and  hesitated  —  and 
turned  away.  He  might  never  see  her 
now.  Well,  he  had  promised  Rosa- 
lind. Somehow,  the  promise  to  Rosa- 

54 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

lind  must  be  kept  —  now.    The  letter 
of  the  law  must  be  kept! 

They  were  waiting  for  him  in  the 
hall  by  his  office  door,  sitting  at  the 
top  of  the  flight  of  stairs  and  peering 
down  into  the  elevator-shaft  as  the 
elevator  shot  up  and  down.  He  saw 
them  as  he  stepped  out,  and  smiled 
at  them.  They  were  fresh,  wholesome 
boys,  and  he  had  a  sense,  as  he  fitted 
the  key  in  the  lock  and  they  stood 
waiting  behind  his  bent  back,  that 
they  belonged  to  him.  He  had  al- 
ways thought  of  them  as  Rosalind's 
boys! 

He  threw  open  the  door  and  they 
went  in,  looking  about  them  almost 
shyly;  they  were  not  shy  boys,  but  fa- 
ther was  a  big  man  —  and  they  looked 
ss 


THE  WOMAN 

at  the  place  where  he  worked.  .  .  . 
Some  time  they  would  be  —  men  and 
have  an  office.  .  .  . 

Eldridge  Walcott  turned  back  from 
the  desk  that  he  had  opened.  He  had 
taken  out  a  little  roll  of  paper  and 
slipped  it  into  his  pocket.  Their  eyes 
followed  him  gravely.  He  looked  at 
them  standing  —  half  in  their  world, 
half  in  his  —  and  smiled  to  them. 

"You  had  to  wait  a  good  while, 
didn't  you?"  he  said. 

They  nodded  together.  "Most  an 
hour,"  said  Tommie. 

"Well,  that's  all  right-  Some- 
thing kept  me.  Come  on." 

When  they  reached  home  that  eve- 
ning he  handed  the  little  roll  of  paper 
he  had  taken  from  the  desk  to  Rosa- 
lind. "I  have  doubled  it,"  he  said. 
56 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

"There  will  be  enough  for  everything 
you  want/* 

For  a  minute  she  did  not  speak. 
Then  she  took  it.  "Thank  you,"  she 
said  slowly. 

"I  want  you  to  get  a  suit,  you 
know  —  a  good  one — "  He  paused. 
" — And  you  need  something  warm  — 
a  fur-lined  wrap  or  something  —  don't 
you?" 

She  wrinkled  the  little  line  between 
her  eyes.  "  It  is  —  so  late  —  the  win- 
ter is  half  gone  already."  Then  her 
face  cleared.  "I  think  I  '11  —  wait  till 
spring,"  she  said. 

He  could  almost  fancy  something 
danced  at  him,  mocked  him  behind  the 
still  face. 

He  turned  away,  the  deep,  hurt  feel- 
ing coming  close.  "Get  what  you 

57 


THE  WOMAN 

like,"  he  said.     "I  want  you  to  have 
enough." 

The  money  lay  in  her  hand,  and 
her  fingers  opened  on  it  and  closed  on 
it.  Then  she  breathed  softly,  like  a 
sigh,  and  went  to  her  desk  and  put  it 
away. 


VI 

THROUGH  the  .weeks  that  fol- 
lowed Eldridge  watched  the 
things  money  could  buy  quietly  taking 
their  place  in  the  house.  Little  com- 
forts that  he  had  not  missed  —  had  not 
known  any  one  could  miss  —  were  at 
hand.  The  children  looked  somehow 
subtly  different.  He  had  a  sense  of 
expansion,  softly  breaking  threads 
of  habit,  expectancy.  Only  Rosalind 
seemed  unchanged.  Yet  each  time  he 
looked  at  her  he  fancied  that  she  had 
changed  —  more  than  all  of  them. 
He  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from 
her.  Something  was  hidden  in  her  — 
Something  he  did  not  know  —  that  he 

59 


THE  WOMAN 

would  never  know.  Perhaps  he  should 
die  and  not  know  it.  ...  Did  the 
dead  know  things  —  everything  ?  He 
seemed  to  remember  hazily  from  Sun- 
day-school —  something  —  If  he  were 
dead,  he  might  come  close  to  her  —  as 
close  as  the  little  thoughts  behind  her 
eyes 

The  cold  grew  keener,  and  Eldridge, 
shivering  home  from  the  office,  re- 
membered a  pair  of  fur  gloves  in  the 
attic.  He  had  not  worn  them  for  years. 
But  after  supper  he  took  a  light  and 
went  to  look  for  them. 

It  was  cold  there,  in  the  attic,  and 
he  shivered  a  little,  looking  about  the 
dusty  place.  There  were  boxes  stacked 
along  under  the  eaves  and  garments 
hanging  grotesquely  from  the  beams. 

He    knew   where    Rosalind    kept   the 
60 


gloves;  he  had  seen  them  one  day  last 
summer  when  he  was  looking  for  win- 
dow netting.  It  had  not  seemed  to 
him  then,  in  the  hot  attic,  that  any 
one  could  ever  need  gloves.  He  set 
down  the  lamp  on  a  box  and  drew  out 
a  trunk  and  looked  in  it;  they  were 
not  there.  She  must  have  changed 
the  place  of  things  —  he  would  have 
to  go  down  and  ask  her. 

Then  his  eye  sought  out  a  box  pushed 
far  back  under  the  eaves  —  he  did  not 
remember  that  he  had  ever  seen  that 
box;  he  glanced  at  it  —  and  half  turned 
away  to  pick  up  the  lamp  —  and  turned 
back.  He  could  not  have  told  why  he 
felt  that  he  must  open  it.  He  had 
set  the  light  on  a  box  a  little  above 
him,  and  it  glimmered  down  on  the 
box  that  he  drew  out  and  opened  — 

61 


THE  WOMAN 

and  on  a  smooth  piece  of  tissue-paper 
under  the  cover A  faint  per- 
fume came  from  beneath  the  paper, 
and  he  lifted  it.  There  was  a  pair  of 
long  grey  gloves  —  with  the  shape  of 
a  woman's  hand  still  softly  held  in  the 
finger-tips.  .  .  .  He  lifted  them  and 
stared  and  moistened  his  lips  and  ran 
his  hand  down  inside  the  box  to  the 
bottom  —  soft,  filmy  stuff  that  yielded 
and  sprang  back.  ...  He  kneeled  be- 
fore it,  half  on  his  heels,  peering  down. 
He  bent  forward  and  lifted  the  things 
out  —  white  things  with  threaded  rib- 
bon and  lace  —  things  such  as  El- 
dridge  Walcott  had  never  seen  — 
delicate,  web-like  things  —  then  a  fur- 
lined  coat  and  a  grey  dress  and,  at  the 
bottom,  a  little  linked  something.  He 

lifted  it  and  peered  at  it  and  at  the 

62 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

coins  shining  through  the  meshes  and 
dropped  it  back. 

He  stood  up  and  looked  about  him 
vaguely  .  .  .  after  a  minute  he  shiv- 
ered a  little.  It  was  very  cold  in  the 
attic.  He  knelt  down  and  tried  to  put 
the  things  back;  but  his  fingers  shook, 
and  the  things  took  queer  shapes  and 
fell  apart,  and  a  soft  perfume  came 
from  them  that  confused  him.  He 
tried  to  steady  himself  —  he  began 
at  the  bottom,  putting  each  thing 
carefully  in  place  .  .  .  smoothing  it 
down. 

The  door  below  creaked.  A  voice 
listened.  .  .  .  "You  up  there,  El- 
dridge?" 

He  straightened  himself  .  .  .  out  of 
a  thousand  thoughts  and  questions. 

"Where  are  my  fur  gloves?"  he  said 
63 


THE  WOMAN 

quietly.  He  took  the  light  from  its 
box  and  came  over  to  the  stairs. 

Her  face,  lifted  to  him,  was  in  the 
light  and  he  could  see  the  rays  of  light 
falling  on  it  —  and  on  the  stillness,  like 
a  pool.  .  .  . 

"They're  in  the  black  trunk,"  said 
Rosalind.  Her  foot  moved  to  the  stair 
—  "I'll  get  them  for  you." 

"No —  Don't  come  up,"  he  said. 
"It 's  cold  here.  I  know  —  I  was  just 
looking  there." 

So  she  went  back,  closing  the  door 
behind  her  to  keep  out  the  cold. 

When  Eldridge  came  down  he  did 
not  look  at  her.  He  blew  out  the  light 
and  put  the  gloves  with  his  hat  in  the 
hall  and  came  over  with  his  paper  and 
sat  down. 

She  was  standing  by  the  fire,  bend- 
64 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

ing  over  a  pair  of  socks  that  she  had 
been  washing  out.  She  was  hanging 
them  in  front  of  the  fire,  pulling  out 
the  toes.  Her  eyes  looked  at  him 
inquiringly  as  her  fingers  went  on 
stretching  the  little  toes. 

"Did  you  find  them?" 

"Yes."    He  opened  his  paper  slowly. 

She  went  on  fussing  at  the  socks,  a 
little,  absent  smile  on  her  face.  "If 
it  keeps  on  like  this  I  must  get  heavier 
flannels  for  them,"  she  said.  The  look 
in  her  face  was  very  sweet  as  she  bent 
over  the  small  socks. 

He  looked  up  —  and  glanced  away. 
"  Money  enough  —  have  you  ? " 

"Oh,  yes  —  plenty  of  money.  I  will 
get  them  to-morrow  —  if  I  can  go  in 
to  town — "  she  said. 

His  mind  flashed  to  the  attic  above 
65 


THE  WOMAN 

them  and  to  the  quiet  alcove  with  the 
little  green  curtains  that  shut  it  off. 
"  Better  dress  warm  if  you  do  go,"  he 
said  carelessly.  "It  is  pretty  cold,  you 
know."  He  took  up  the  paper  and 
stared  at  it. 


66 


VII 

SO  it  was  —  Rosalind !     He  sat  in 
his  office  and  stared  at  the  blot- 
ter on  his  desk.  ...     It  was  a  green 

blotter For  years  after  Eldridge 

Walcott  could  not  see  a  green  blotter 
without  a  little,  sudden  sense  of  up- 
heaval; he  would  walk  into  a  plain 
commercial  office  —  suddenly  the  walls 
hovered,  the  furniture  moved  subtly  — 
even  the  floor  grew  a  little  unsteady 
before  he  could  come  with  a  jerk  to  a 
green  blotter  on  the  roller-top  desk  — 
and  face  it  squarely.  The  blotter  on 
his  own  desk  was  exchanged  for  a  crim- 
son one  —  the  next  day.  He  would 

have  liked  to  change  everything  in  the 
67 


THE  WOMAN 

room.    The  very  furniture  seemed  to 
mock  him  —  to  question.  .  .  . 

So  it  was  —  Rosalind !  Rosalind  — 
was  like  that — !  His  heart  gave  a 
quick  beat  —  like  a  boy's  —  and  stood 
still.  .  .  .  Rosalind  was  like  that  —  for 

—  somebody  else.  .  .  .    He  stared  at 
the  blotter  and  drew  a  pad  absently 
toward  him. 

The  office  boy  stuck  his  head  in  the 
door  and  drew  it  back.  He  shook  it 
at  a  short,  heavy  man  with  a  thinnish, 
black-grey  beard  who  was  hovering 
near.  "He  told  me  not  to  disturb  him 

—  not  for  anybody,"  the  boy  said  im- 
portantly. 

The  man  took  a  card  from  his  pocket 
and  wrote  on  it.  "Take  him  that." 

The  boy  glanced  at  the  name  and 
at  the  thin,  blackish  beard.  There  was 

68 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

a  large  wart  on  the  man's  chin  where 
the  beard  did  not  grow.  The  boy's 
eyes  rested  on  it  —  and  looked  away 
to  the  card.  "I '11  —  ask  him  — "  he 
said. 

The  man  nodded.  "Take  him  that 
first." 

The  boy  went  in. 

The  man  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  down;  the  thick  flesh  at  the 
back  of  his  neck  overlapped  a  little  on 
the  collar  of  his  well-cut  coat  and  the 
heavy  shoulders  seemed  to  shrug  them- 
selves under  the  smooth  fit. 

The  boy's  eyes  surveyed  the  back 
respectfully.  "You're  to  come  in,"  he 
says. 

The  man  turned  and  went  in  and 
Eldridge  Walcott  looked  up.  "I'm 

sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting." 
69 


THE  WOMAN 

"That's  all  right."  The  man  sat 
down  a  little  heavily  —  as  if  he  were 
tired.  "That's  all  right.  I  waited 
because  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  want 
some  one  to  do  —  a  piece  of  work  — 
for  me — " 

"Yes?" 

"I  don't  care  to  have  my  regular 
man  on  it  — " 

"You  have  Clarkson,  don't  you?" 

"Yes — I  have  Clarkson."  The  man 
waited.  "  Clarkson 's  all  right  —  for 
business,"  he  said.  "I  want  a  differ- 
ent sort  —  for  this." 

He  felt  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat  and 
drew  out  a  letter,  and  then  another, 
and  held  them,  looking  down  at  them 
absently,  turning  them  over  in  his 
hand. 

"It's   a   divorce—      he   said.      He 

70 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

went  on  turning  the  letters  in  his  hand 
but  not  looking  at  them.  "  I  've  waited 
as  long  as  I  could,"  he  added  after  a 
minute.  "  It 's  no  use  — "  He  laid  the 
letters  on  the  desk.  "It  took  a  detec- 
tive —  and  money  —  to  get  'em.  I 
reckon  they'll  do  the  business,"  he 
said. 

Eldridge  reached  out  his  hand  for 
them.  The  man's  errand  startled  him 
a  little.  He  had  been  going  over  di- 
vorce on  the  green  blotter  when  the 
boy  came  in.  He  opened  the  letters 
slowly.  A  little  faint  perfume  drifted 
up  —  and  between  him  and  the  words 
came  a  sense  of  the  blackish-grey 
beard  and  the  wart  in  among  it.  He  had 
stared  at  it,  fascinated,  while  the  man 
talked.  .  .  .  He  could  imagine  what 

it  might  mean  to  a  woman,  day  after 
71 


THE  WOMAN 

day.  He  focussed  his  attention  on  the 
letter  —  and  read  it  and  took  up  the 
other  and  laid  it  down.  .  .  . 

"Yes —  Those  are  sufficient,"  he 
said  almost  curtly.  He  took  up  his 
pen.  " Your  "middle  initial  is  J?" 

"Gordon  J.,"  said  the  man. 

Eldridge  traced  the  name.  "And 
your  wife?" 

The  man  stared  at  him. 

"Her  full  name-        said  Eldridge. 

"Her  name  is  Cordelia  Rose  —  Bar- 
stow,"  said  the  man. 

Eldridge  wrote  it  efficiently.  "Do 
you  name  any  one  as  co-respondent?" 

"I  name  —  his  name  is — "  The 
man  gulped  and  his  puffy  face  was 
grim.  "John  E.  Tower  is  his  name," 
he  said  slowly. 

Eldridge  filled  in  the  paper  before 

72 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

him  and  laid  a  blotter  across  it.  "That 
is  sufficient.  I  will  file  the  application 
to-morrow.  There  will  be  no  trouble. 
She  will  not  contest  it —  ?" 

The  man  swallowed  a  little.  "  No  — 
She  wants  —  to  be  free  — "  He  ended 
the  words  defiantly,  but  with  a  kind 
of  shame. 

Eldridge  made  no  reply.  He  was 
seeing  a  quiet  figure,  with  bent  head, 
smiling  at  something  —  something  that 
shut  him  out.  He  looked  across  to  the 
man. 

The  man's  eyes  met  his.  "That 's 
all  you  need  —  is  it?"  He  seemed  a 
little  disappointed.  "No  more  to  it 
than  this?" 

"That's  all,"  said  Eldridge. 

But  the  man  did  not  get  up.  "I 
don't  know  how  it  happened,"  he 

73 


THE  WOMAN 

said.  "You  see,  I  never  guessed  — 
not  till  two  weeks  —  ten  days  ago  or 
so." 

"I  see—" 

"  I  'd  always  trusted  Cordelia  —  I 
hadn't  ever  thought  as  she  could  do 
anything  like  that  —  not  my  wife!" 

"One  doesn't  usually  expect  it  of 
one's  —  own  wife."  Eldridge  laughed 
a  little,  but  it  was  not  unkindly, 
and  the  man  seemed  to  draw  toward 
him. 

"  I  've  never  mentioned  it  —  except 
to  that  detective,  and  I  didn't  tell  him 
—  any  more  than  I  had  to  —  He 
didn't  seem  to  need  much  telling  — "  he 
said  dryly.  "He  seemed  to  sense  just 
about  what  had  been  going  on  —  with- 
out telling." 

"Yes — ?"     Eldridge  was   looking 

74 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

thoughtfully  into  the  greyish-black 
beard  with  the  round  lump  in  it. 

"  He  's  got  the  facts.  It  took  him 
just  two  weeks  —  to  get  'em."  His 
hand  motioned  toward  the  letters,  but 
there  was  something  in  the  face  —  a 
kind  of  puffy  appeal. 

Eldridge  nodded.  "  They  know  what 
to  do,"  he  said  quietly. 

"I  hadn't  even  mistrusted,"  said  the 
man.  His  eyes  were  looking  at  some- 
thing that  Eldridge  could  not  see  — 
something  that  seemed  to  come  from 
a  faint  perfume  in  the  room.  ...  "I 
can  see  it  plain  enough  now  —  look- 
ing back.  .  .  .  You  don't  mind  my 
telling  you  —  a  little  —  about  it." 

Eldridge  shook  his  head.  The  man 
seemed  a  kind  of  lumbering  boy,  yet 
he  was  a  shrewd,  keen  man  in  business. 

75 


THE  WOMAN 

"It  might  help  —  you  know — "  he 
said.  "I  thought  you'd  ask  me,  prob- 
ably —  I  'd  kind  of  planned  to  tell  you, 
I  guess."  He  laughed  a  little  awk- 
wardly. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Eldridge. 

"  He  was  my  friend,  you  see.  And  I 
brought  him  home  with  me  and  made 
'em  friends.  ...  I  can  see  now,  look- 
ing back,  what  a  fool  I  was  —  about 
it.  But  I  didn't  see  it  —  then.  I 
don't  know  now  what  it  was  about 
him.  ...  He's  old  as  I  be  —  and  I  Ve 
got  the  money.  I  can  give  her  every- 
thing she  wants  —  more  than  he  can. 
But  I  know  now  that  from  the  first 
day  she  see  him  she  was  curious  about 
him.  ...  I  'd  brought  him  home  to 
dinner  one  night  -  It  was  just  after 

we  were  married.  ...    I  always  kind 

76 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

of  think  of  him  that  night  —  the  way 
he  looked  at  table  —  he  's  tall  —  You 
know  him  — ?" 

Eldridge  nodded.  He  was  seeing 
the  tall,  distinguished  figure  —  and 
beside  it  a  humped-up  one  across  his 
desk. 

"We  had  red  lamp-shades  and  can- 
dles and  flowers  —  Everything  shin- 
ing, you  know  —  Cordelia  likes  'em 
that  way.  .  .  .  When  I  try  to  think 
how  it  started  I  see  'em  the  way  they 
looked  that  first  night.  I  was  proud 
of  'em  both.  I  felt  as  if  Cordelia  be- 
longed to  me  —  and  as  if  he  did,  too  — 
in  a  way  —  "  He  looked  at  Eldridge. 
"  I  'd  put  him  on  to  a  good  thing  in 
business  — !" 

"Yes." 

"He  and  Cordelia  laughed  and  talked 

77 


THE  WOMAN 

the  whole  evening  —  kind  o*  took  it  up 
—  back  and  forth  —  the  way  you  'd 
play  ball.  I  could  see  Cordelia  liked 
him.  I  was  a  fool.  I  'd  waited  about 
getting  married  till  I  had  money  enough 
to  give  a  woman  —  to  give  her  every- 
thing —  and  when  she  'd  got  it  I  never 
see  there  might  be  —  something  else 
she  'd  want.  ...  I  don't  just  know 
what  now — "  He  shook  his  head. 
"  Some  days,  since  I  Ve  got  sure  of  it, 
I  Ve  felt  as  if  it  couldn't  be  so  —  as  if 
she  couldn't  have  gone  on  living  with 
me  and  having  that  other  life  —  I 
didn't  know  about  —  shut  away  from 
me  —  and  I  loving  her.  ..."  The 
little,  clear  alcove  moved  before  El- 
dridge  and  moved  away.  He  was 
making  absent  marks  on  the  edge  of 

the  pad  before  him. 

78 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

The  man  sighed.  "Well—  It  isn't 
any  use!  That's  all,  I  guess — " 

Eldridge  looked  up.  "Had  you 
thought  of  —  winning  her  back?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "I 
couldn't  do  it."  He  looked  at  him 
as  if  wondering  whether  he  would  un- 
derstand. "There  's  something  about 
her  I  don't  get  at,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Isn't  there  something  about  any 
woman  you  don't  get  at?"  said  El- 
dridge. 

"That 's  it!"  assented  the  man.  "It 
isn't  just  Cordelia.  It 's  all  of  them  — 
in  back  of  'em,  somehow.  I  can't  tell 
you  just  how  it  is,  but  I  've  thought  of 
it  a  lot  —  I  guess  there  isn't  anything 
I  haven't  thought  of  —  since  I  knew 
—  lying  awake  nights  and  thinking. 
Somehow,  I  knew,  the  first  day  it  came 

79 


THE  WOMAN 

to  me  —  I  knew  there  wasn't  any  use 
.  .  .  since  the  day  I  come  on  'em  at 
Merwin's." 

The  lawyer's  hand,  making  its  little 
marks,  stopped  —  and  went  on.  "They 
were  at  Merwin's  —  together?"  he  said. 

"  Everybody  goes  to  Merwin's,"  said 
the  man.  "It  wasn't  their  being  there; 
it  was  the  way  they  looked  when  I  saw 
'em.  .  .  .  They  were  sitting  in  one  of 
them  little  alcove  places,  you  know  — " 

Eldridge  nodded.    Yes  —  he  knew. 

"The  curtains  were  open  —  wide 
open,"  said  the  man.  "Anybody  could 
'a'  looked  in.  There  wasn't  anything 
wrong  about  it.  But  I  saw  their  faces 
—  both  of  'em  —  and  I  knew.  .  .  . 
They  were  just  sitting  quiet  —  the  way 
people  do  when  they  're  alone.  .  .  . 

There 's  something  different  about  the 
80 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

way  people  sit  —  when  they  're  alone 
—  by  themselves  —  I  don't  know  as 
you  Ve  ever  noticed  it?" 

"I  have  noticed  it,"  said  Eldridge. 

"Quiet  and  happy  — "  said  the  man, 
"and  not  talking  —  and  not  needing  to 
talk."    He  took  up  his  hat.    "Well- 
you  know  where  to  find  me.    I  shan't 

bother  you  like  this  again "     He 

stood  up. 

Eldridge  held  out  a  hand.  "I  am 
glad  you  told  me.  It  helps  —  to  un- 
derstand —  the  case." 

The  man's  thick  face  looked  at  him. 
"7  don't  understand  it  myself,"  he 
said,  "  but  I  Ve  got  to  go  through  with 


it." 


81 


VIII 

Tj^LDRIDGE  went  on  making  little 
•*— '  marks  on  the  edge  of  the  paper. 
He  no  longer  stared  at  the  blotter;  he 
was  seeing  things.  Gordon  Barstow's 
recital  had  shown  things  to  him  in  per- 
spective and  his  own  trouble  seemed 
moved  far  away  from  him  to  a  kind  of 
clear  place.  He  sat  and  looked  at  it 
—  making  little  marks  on  the  paper. 
Rosalind  was  not  to  blame.  A  woman 
like  Rosalind  had  the  right  —  she  could 
do  what  she  wanted!  What  had  he 
ever  done  to  win  her  —  to  keep  her  ? 
Not  even  money.  He  had  kept  it  for 
himself  —  and  built  up  a  comfortable 

fortune.  ...     He  had  the  fortune  — 

82 


THE  WOMAN 

yes.  And  he  had  lost  Rosalind.  .  .  . 
He  suddenly  saw  himself  in  the  clear 
light  —  he  was  not  lovable  like  old 
Barstow.  The  vision  grew  before  him 

—  all  his  saving  closeness,  his  dulness 

—  a  lifeless  prig!  .  .  .     And  then  the 
picture  of  Rosalind,  the  vision  of  her 
in  her  alcove  —  "the  way  people  sit 
when  they  are  alone  —     I  don't  know 
as  you  ever  noticed  —  ?"    old  Barstow 
had  said. 

Well,  then  —  what  was  to  be  done  ? 
His  shoulders  squared  a  little.  No  man 
was  going  to  win  Rosalind  —  with- 
out a  fight!  The  man  who  would  win 
her  should  reckon  with  him.  ...  He 
had  never  known  Rosalind.  Perhaps 
Rosalind  had  never  known  him.  .  .  . 
What  had  he  given  her  —  to  know  him 

by?     She  had  had  the  right  to  work 

83 


THE  WOMAN 

for  him,  to  sweep  his  floors  and  make 
his  bed  and  take  care  of  the  chil- 
dren. .  .  .  She  should  have  money 
now.  She  should  become  a  partner  — 
in  all  his  plans  —  and  suddenly  El- 
dridge  Walcott  saw  that  money  would 
not  win  her  —  money  would  not  buy 
the  gracious  presence  in  the  alcove; 
she  did  not  need  money.  .  .  .  He 
must  give  his  soul  —  to  win  her  — 

Then  he  took  out  his  soul  and 
looked  at  it  —  the  shrunken,  dry,  rat- 
tling thing  —  and  flicked  it  from  him 
with  a  finger-nail. 

The  office  boy  put  his  head  in  cau- 
tiously. 

"What  do  you  want?"  said  Eldridge 
harshly. 

"It's  Mr.  Dutton,"  said  the  boy. 

"Well,  show  him  in." 
84 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

And  while  Mr.  Button  talked  of  real 
estate,  Eldridge's  soul  peeped  out  at 
the  man.  He  wanted  to  stop  the  flow 
of  facts  and  figures  and  put  a  straight 
question  to  him.  "How  do  you  get 
on  with  your  wife,  Mr.  Button?"  he 
wanted  to  say  to  him.  He  could  see 
the  man's  startled  face  checked  in  its 
flow  of  fact.  ...  It  would  not  do; 
of  course  it  would  not  do  to  ask  him 
how  he  got  on  with  his  wife.  Probably 
he  got  on  with  her  as  Eldridge  Walcott 
had  done  —  sewing,  sweeping,  eating, 
saving  — 

"So  I  have  decided,"  the  man  was 
saying,  "to  take  the  entire  block  —  if 
the  title  is  good." 

Eldridge  Walcott  bowed  him  out 
and  turned  back  from  the  door.  But 
he  did  not  sit  down.  He  would  go  to 
85 


THE  WOMAN 

Merwin's.  Perhaps  she  was  there  — 
she  had  said  she  might  come  in  to 
town.  .  .  .  But,  with  his  hand  on  the 

door,  he  paused Suppose  he  found 

her —  What  then?  —  and  the  man 
with  her?  What  then? —  Suppose 
he  found  her!  There  was  nothing  he 
could  do  —  not  yet !  He  would  win 
her  back.  .  .  .  But  the  man  he  had 
to  reckon  with  was  not  the  man  sit- 
ting with  her  now,  perhaps,  in  the 
alcove.  The  man  he  had  to  reckon 
with  was  Eldridge  Walcott  —  the  lit- 
tle, shrunken,  undersized  Eldridge  Wal- 
cott. 

He  saw  it  —  standing  with  his  hand 
on  the  door,  looking  down  —  and  he 
looked  at  it  a  long  minute. 

Then  he  opened  the  door. 

The  office  boy  wheeled  about  from 

86 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

the  window-shade  that  was  stuck  half- 
way up. 

"I  am  ready  to  see  anybody  that 
comes,  Burton,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  said  the  boy.  "This 
old  thing  gets  stuck  every  other  day!" 
He  jerked  at  it. 

Eldridge  came  across  and  looked  at 
the  cord  and  straightened  it  and  went 
back  to  his  room.  The  little  inci- 
dent strengthened  him  subtly.  He  had 
never  yet  failed  in  anything  he  under- 
took, big  or  little  —  he  had  always  suc- 
ceeded in  what  he  undertook  —  And 
suddenly  he  saw  that  Eldridge  Walcott 
had  never  in  his  life  undertaken  any- 
thing that  was  not  small.  ...  He 
had  done  small,  safe  things.  He  had 
straightened  window-shades  all  his  life 

—  and  he  had  never  failed ! 

87 


THE  WOMAN 

He  had  always  had  a  half-veiled  con- 
tempt for  men  who  ran  risks.  Find  a 
safe  thing  and  hold  on  to  it  had  been 
his  policy.  It  had  brought  him  through 
smugly.  He  had  never  made  a  mis- 
take. .  .  .  The  nearest  he  had  ever 
come  to  a  risk  was  before  he  asked 
Rosalind  to  marry  him.  There  had 
been  something  about  her  that  he 
could  not  fathom,  something  that  drew 
him  —  and  made  him  afraid  —  a  kind 
of  sweet  mystery  .  .  .  that  would  not 
let  him  be  safe.  Then  it  had  seemed 
so  safe  afterward;  they  had  lived  to- 
gether quietly  without  a  break.  The 
young  Rosalind  who  had  taught  him 
to  be  afraid  he  had  forgotten  —  and 
now  young  Rosalind  had  come  back 
.  .  .  she  had  come  back  to  him  and 
with  deeper  mystery.  .  .  .  This  was 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

the  real  Rosalind,  the  other  was  only 
a  shadowy  promise.  .  .  .  The  young 
Rosalind  would  try  him  for  his  soul  — 
and  he  had  —  no  soul ! 

Who  was  that  other  man  in  the  al- 
cove with  her  —  the  man  who  had  won 
her?  Who  was  it  she  had  found  to 
understand  the  mystery  —  to  look  up 
to  her  and  worship  her  —  as  he  had 
worshipped  Rosalind,  the  girl;  as  he 
had  worshipped  Rosalind  —  and  let  her 
go! 

And  he  had  been  thinking  about  di- 
vorce! Thinking  of  the  grounds  for  it 
and  how  he  should  get  grounds  of  di- 
vorce —  as  Gordon  Barstow  had  done. 
He  glanced  at  the  two  letters  on  his 
desk  and  at  the  little,  jotted  notes  of 
the  Barstow  case  and  a  smile  flitted  to 

them  —  grounds  for  divorce  from  Ros- 
89 


THE  WOMAN 

alind!  He  saw  her,  in  her  freedom, 
moving  from  him.  .  .  .  His  teeth  set 
a  little.  She  should  never  leave  him! 
She  should  stay  with  him.  She  should 
stay  because  he  wanted  her  —  and  be- 
cause she  wanted  him! 

And  through  the  rest  of  the  day,  as 
clients  came  and  went,  he  saw  some- 
thing new.  He  saw  cases  differently. 
Men  were  accustomed  to  come  to  him 
because  he  was  a  "safe"  man.  .  .  . 
Well,  he  was  not  quite  safe  to-day  — 
But  he  knew  underneath,  as  he  worked, 
that  his  advice  had  never  been  so  worth 
while. 


IX 

HE  had  left  the  office  early  and  had 
caught  a  car  that  was  passing 
the  corner  as  he  came  out.  As  soon 
as  he  entered  he  knew  that  Rosalind 
was  in  the  car,  three  seats  ahead.  He 
gave  a  little  start,  a  quick  flash  —  he 
did  not  want  to  catch  Rosalind  off 
guard  —  Then  he  smiled;  it  was  not 
Rosalind  of  the  alcove  —  it  was  the 
plain,  every-day  Rosalind,  her  lap 
heaped  with  bundles,  and  bundles  on 
the  seat  beside  her.  Rosalind's  flan- 
nels, he  thought,  probably. 

He  moved  down  the  aisle  and  stood 
beside  the  seat,  lifting  his  hat  and 
looking  down  at  her. 

91 


THE  WOMAN 

"Why,  Eldridge!"  She  looked  up 
with  the  little  peering  smile  and  made 
a  place  for  him  among  the  bundles, 
trying  to  gather  them  up  into  her  lap. 

But  he  swept  them  away.  "  I  '11 
take  these,"  he  said. 

The  little  distressed  look  came  be- 
tween her  eyes.  Eldridge  couldn't 
bear  bundles.  "I  thought  I  wouldn't 
wait  to  have  them  sent,"  she  apolo- 
gized. "It 's  so  cold  —  and  they  need 
them  —  right  off." 

"Yes  —  "  He  looked  at  her  jacket; 
it  was  thin,  with  the  shabby  lining 
showing  at  the  edge.  "Did  you  get 
yourself  a  warm  wrap?"  he  asked. 

She  was  looking  out  of  the  window, 
and  the  line  of  her  cheek  flushed 
swiftly.  "No  — I  —  " 

"I  want  you  to  do  it  —  at  once." 
92 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

She  glanced  at  him  —  a  little  ques- 
tioning look  in  her  face.  "I  —  have 
—  seen  something  I  like  — "  she  said. 

"Get  it  to-morrow.  I  will  order  it 
for  you  when  I  go  in." 

Her  hands  made  a  gesture  above 
the  bundles.  "Please  don't,  Eldridge. 
I  would  rather  —  do  it  —  myself." 

"Very  well.   But  remember  to  get  it." 

"Yes  — I  will  get  it."  She  sighed 
softly. 

Deceitful  Rosalind!  If  he  had  not 
seen  for  himself  the  box  in  the  attic 
with  its  overflowing  soft  colors  and  the 
grey  fur,  he  would  not  have  believed 
the  deceit  of  her  face.  .  .  . 

Not  that  he  was  blaming  anybody. 
He  was  not  blaming  Rosalind.  The 
picture  of  Mr.  Eldridge  Walcott  re- 
mained with  him.  ...  He  was  not 

93 


THE  WOMAN 

likely  to  forget  how  Mr.  Eldridge  Wal- 
cott  had  looked  to  him  —  in  the  flash 
of  light. 

Perhaps  he  looked  like  that  to  Rosa- 
lind—  to  both  Rosalinds!  Returned 
a  little  in  the  seat  and  glanced  down 
at  her  —  Yes,  they  were  both  there  — 
the  plain  little  figure  in  its  shabby 
jacket  and  the  reticent,  beautiful  wo- 
man of  the  alcove. 

The  fingers  in  cheap  gloves  were 
fussing  at  a  parcel.  "I  got  fleece-lined 
shirts  for  Tommie  —  his  skin  is  so  sen- 
sitive —  I  thought  I  would  try  fleece- 
lined  ones  for  him." 

Damn  fleece-lined  ones!  Would  she 
never  talk  to  him  except  of  undershirts 
—  and  coal-hods  ?  He  took  the  paper 
from  his  pocket  and  glanced  casually 
at  it. 

94 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 


(C 


'Has  coal  gone  up?"  she  asked. 
"They  said  it  would  go  up  —  if  it 
stayed  cold."  The  anxious  lines  were 
in  her  face. 

He  put  down  the  paper  and  leaned 
toward  her.  He  felt  nearer  to  her,  in 
a  street  car,  than  in  his  own  home. 
"Don't  you  worry  about  coal,  Ros- 
alind !  We  shall  not  freeze  —  nor 


starve." 


She  stared  a  little.  "Of  course,  we 
shall  not  freeze,  Eldridge!" 

"I  mean  there  is  plenty  —  to  be 
comfortable  with.  You  are  not  to 
worry  and  pinch." 

A  quick  look  flooded  out  at  him  — 
a  look  of  the  Rosalind  within.  "You 
mean  we  can  afford  not  to  worry?" 

He  saw  the  prig  Eldridge  Walcott, 
walking  in  serene  knowledge  of  a  com- 

95 


THE  WOMAN 

fortable  income  while  the  little  lines 
had  gathered  in  her  face.  He  longed 
to  kick  the  respectable  Mr.  Eldridge 
Walcott  from  behind. 

"There  is  quite  enough  money,"  he 
said.  "I  am  doing  better  than  I  have 
—  and  I  shall  do  better  yet." 

She  looked  down  at  the  bundles.  "I 
might  have  got  a  better  quality,"  she 
said. 

"Take  them  all  back,"  said  Eldridge. 
"I'll  take  them—" 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "No,  they 
need  them  to-morrow  —  and  these  will 
do-  She  smiled  at  them.  "It's 
really  more  the  feeling  that  you  can 
get  better  ones,  isn't  it?  You  don't 
mind  wearing  old  things  —  if  you  know 
you  could  have  better  ones  —  if  you 

wanted  to — "    She  broke  off  vaguely. 
96 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

He  saw  the  box  in  the  attic  —  all 
the  filmy  softness  —  and  he  saw  the  ill- 
fitting,  cheap  gloves  resting  in  her 
lap  — 

That  was  what  had  saved  her  —  the 
real  Rosalind.  Some  one  had  seen  that 
her  soul  should  be  in  its  own  clothes, 
now  and  then,  and  happy  and  free. 
You  could  not  quite  be  jealous  of  a 
man  who  had  done  that  for  you  — 
who  had  clothed  Rosalind's  soul,  could 
you? 

He  could  not  think  of  the  man 
who  had  clothed  Rosalind's  soul  —  who 
had  kept  alive  something  that  was  pre- 
cious. He  could  not  hate  the  man.  But 
there  was  no  place  in  his  thoughts  for 
him. 

Suppose,  after  all,  Rosalind  be- 
longed to  the  man  who  saw  her  soul 

97 


THE  WOMAN 

and  clothed  it?  Suppose  Rosalind  be- 
longed to  him !  .  .  .  Very  well  —  he 
should  not  have  her! 

He  helped  her  from  the  car  with  her 
bundles,  and  as  he  fitted  the  key  in 
the  door  the  wind  struck  them  fiercely; 
they  were  almost  blown  in  with  the 
force  of  it  as  the  door  opened.  They 
stood  in  the  hall,  laughing,  safe  —  the 

wind  shut  out There  was  a  quick 

color  in  her  face,  and  it  lifted  to  him, 
laughing  freshly,  like  a  girl's. 

They  were  together.  She  had  not 
looked  at  him  like  that  for  years. 

He  pondered  on  the  look  as  she  went 
about  getting  supper.  He  watched  her 
come  and  go  and  wondered  awkwardly 
whether  he  might  not  offer  to  go  out 
and  help.  He  went  at  last  into  the 

kitchen;    she  was  putting  coal  on  the 

98 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

fire  and  he  took  the  hod  from  her, 
throwing  on  the  coal. 

She  looked  at  him,  puzzled.  "Are 
you  in  a  hurry  for  supper,  Eldridge?" 

"Oh  —  No."  He  went  back  to  the 
living-room,  and  talked  a  little  with 
the  children,  amusing  them  quietly. 
He  had  a  home  sense,  a  feeling  that 
the  room  was  a  kind  of  presence;  the 
wind  howling  outside  could  not  touch 
them. 

And  when  Rosalind  came  in  and 
they  sat  at  the  table  and  he  looked 
across  to  her  shyly,  almost  like  a  boy, 
he  wished  he  knew  what  would  please 
her  best.  He  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
off  her  hand  as  it  grasped  the  handle 
of  the  teapot  and  poured  his  tea.  It 
seemed  such  a  mysterious  hand  with 
the  roughened  finger  pricks  —  and  the 

99 


THE  WOMAN 

little  gentle  hand  inside  that  did  no 
work.  He  wanted  to  take  the  hand,  to 
touch  it.  ...  Of  course,  a  man  would 
not  take  his  wife's  hand  —  like  that. 
He  could  see  the  startled  look  in  Rosa- 
lind's eyes  if  he  should  reach  out.  .  .  . 
There  was  a  long  road  to  travel  —  and 
he  did  not  know  the  way. 

But  he  could  begin  softly  with 
clothes  —  and  touch  her  hand  later 
perhaps.  She  should  have  beautiful 

things He  had  told  her  to  buy 

the  fur-lined  coat. 

He  pictured  her  in  it  —  the  coat  that 
his  money  should  buy  —  he  saw  her 
wrapped  in  it,  and  he  sat  still  thinking 
of  her  and  of  the  coat  his  money  should 
buy.  Then  the  door  opened  and  he 
looked  up. 

She  was  standing  in  the  door  —  and 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

about  her  was  a  long  grey  coat  lined 
with  fur  —  the  coat  of  the  alcove.  Her 
eyes  looked  at  him  over  the  soft  fur  of 
the  collar. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  —  then  he 
checked  the  word  on  his  lip. 

He  must  not  let  her  speak.  It  was 
the  coat  of  the  alcove.  She  would  wear 
it  silently.  But  she  would  not  tell 
him.  She  must  not  be  frightened  into 
saying  something  that  was  not  true. 
He  came  over  to  her  and  touched  the 
edge  of  the  fur,  as  if  questioning  it, 
and  she  smiled  and  opened  it  out. 
"Is  it  warm  enough?"  she  asked 
proudly. 

She  stood  with  the  garment  ex- 
tended like  wings,  and  he  held  his 
breath. 

Then  she  drew  it  together  softly. 


101 


THE  WOMAN 

"I  have  had  it  some  time,"  she  said. 
"I  was  keeping  it  to  surprise  you!" 

His  breath  came  quick.  How  much 
would  she  tell  him?  He  looked  at  it 
critically.  "Was  it  a  bargain?"  he 
asked. 

"No —  Not  a  bargain."  And  she 
stroked  the  edge  of  the  fur.  "I  saw  it 
and  liked  it  —  and  I  got  it." 

"That 's  right.  That  Js  the  way  to 
buy  all  your  clothes."  He  looked  at 
it  a  minute  lightly  and  turned  away. 

She  could  not  have  guessed  from  his 
gesture  that  he  was  disappointed,  but 
her  eyes  followed  him.  "I  hope  you 
won't  think  I  paid  too  much  —  for 
it?" 

"What  did  you  pay?"  he  asked. 
His  back  was  toward  her. 

"  I  paid  —  two  hundred  dollars,"  she 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

said.  The  words  came  lightly,  and 
there  was  a  little  pause. 

"No,  I  don't  think  that  was  too 
much."  He  had  turned  and  was  look- 
ing at  her  —  straight.  "  I  would  have 
paid  more  than  two  hundred  —  to  give 
it  to  you,"  he  said  slowly. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  her  eyes  re- 
garded him  gravely  over  the  edge  of 
the  collar.  Wrapped  in  the  coat,  she 
seemed  for  a  moment  the  woman  of 
the  alcove. 

He  looked  at  her  blindly. 

She  returned  the  look  a  minute  — 
and  turned  away  slowly  and  went  out. 

Eldridge  walked  to  the  table  and 
stood  looking  down.  .  .  .  He  had 
given  her,  in  all,  not  more  than  two 
hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  Did  she 

expect  him  —  to  believe  —  that  all  the 

103 


THE  WOMAN 

things  that  had  come  into  the  house 
since  had  not  cost  more  than  fifty 
dollars  ? 

It  was  as  if  she  flaunted  it  at  him  — 
as  if  she  wanted  him  to  know  that  it 
could  not  have  been  his  money  that 
bought  it!  ...  So  that  was  it!  She 
had  seen  —  she  had  guessed  the  change 
in  him  —  and  this  was  her  guard  ? 
She  would  force  him  to  know  —  to 
accuse  her. 

Old  Barstow's  words  came  to  him 
mockingly:  "No  —  she  will  not  con- 
test it.  She  wants  —  to  be  —  free." 


104 


X 


BUT  if  she  wished  him  to  know 
she  gave  no  other  sign. 

She  spent  the  money  that  he  gave 
her,  and  when  it  was  gone  she  asked 
him  for  more. 

Only  once  she  had  said  as  she  took 
it:  "You  are  sure  it  is  right  for  me  to 
spend  this?" 

And  he  had  replied:  "When  you  ask 
for  anything  I  cannot  give  you  I  will 
let  you  know." 

She  had  said  nothing.  She  had  not 
even  glanced  at  him.  But  somehow  he 
fancied  that  she  understood  him. 

.He  grew  to  know,  by  intuition,  the 

days  when  she  would  go  to  Merwin's. 
105 


THE  WOMAN 

As  he  left  the  house  he  would  say: 
"She  will  be  there — "  And  when  he 
dropped  in,  in  the  afternoon,  he  did 
not  even  need  to  glance  at  the  alcove 
on  the  right.  He  would  sit  down 
quietly  in  his  place  across  the  aisle, 
glad  to  be  with  her. 

He  never  saw  her  come  and  go  and 
he  did  not  know  whether  any  one  was 
with  her  —  behind  her  curtain.  He 
tried  not  to  know.  ...  He  was  try- 
ing to  understand  Rosalind.  What 
was  it  drew  her?  Was  it  music  —  or 
the  quiet  place?  Or  was  there ? 

He  could  easily  have  known.  .  .  . 
Gordon  Barstow's  detective  would  have 
made  sure  for  him  in  a  day.  .  .  .  But 
Eldridge  did  not  want  to  know  —  any- 
thing that  a  detective  could  tell  him. 
He  did  not  want  to  be  told  by  detec- 

106 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

tives  or  told  things  detectives  could 
tell.  He  was  studying  Rosalind's  ev- 
ery wish  —  as  if  he  were  a  boy. 

He  did  not  go  to  Merwin's  till  he 
felt  sure  that  she  would  be  there  in  the 
alcove,  and  he  left  before  she  drew  the 
little  curtain  and  came  out.  He  did 
not  want  to  know.  ...  He  only 
wanted  her  to  be  there  —  and  to  sit 
with  her  a  little  while,  quietly.  .  .  . 

He  would  wait  and  understand. 

A  piano  had  come  into  the  house 
and  the  boys  were  taking  lessons. 
One  day  he  discovered  that  Rosalind 
was  learning,  too. 

He  had  come  home  early,  wondering 
whether  he  would  ask  her  to  go  for  a 
walk  with  him.  He  had  asked  her 

once  or  twice  and  they  had  gone  for  a 

107 


THE  WOMAN 

little  while  before  supper,  walking  aim- 
lessly through  the  suburban  streets, 
saying  very  little;  he  had  fancied  that 
Rosalind  liked  it  —  but  he  could  not 
be  sure. 

He  opened  the  door  with  his  latch- 
key and  stepped  in.  Some  one  was 
playing  softly,  stopping  to  sing  a  lit- 
tle, and  then  playing  again.  .  .  .  Ros- 
alind was  alone. 

He  stood  very  quiet  in  the  dark  hall; 
only  a  little  light  from  above  the  door 
—  shining  on  the  stair  rail  and  on  a 
lamp  that  hung  above  it.  ...  She 
was  playing  with  the  lightest  touch  — 
a  few  notes,  as  if  feeling  her  way,  and 
then  the  little  singing  voice  answering 
it.  ...  So  she  was  like  this  —  very 
still  and  happy  —  and  he  was  shut 

out.     His  hand  groped  behind  him  for 

1 08 


So  she  was  like  this — very  still  and  happy — and  he  was  shut  out 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

the  latch  and  found  it  and  opened 
the  door,  and  he  stepped  outside  and 
closed  the  door  softly. 

He  stood  a  moment  in  the  wind. 
Behind  his  door  he  heard  the  music 
playing  to  itself.  .  .  . 

He  walked  for  a  long  time  that 
afternoon  —  along  the  dull  streets, 
staring  at  brick  houses  and  at  children 
running  past  him  on  brick  walks.  .  .  . 
It  was  all  brick  walks  and  long  rows 
of  houses  —  and  dulness;  he  could  not 
reach  Rosalind.  He  could  buy  clothes 
for  her  —  more  bricks  .  .  .  and  there 
was  the  music  —  his  mind  halted  — 
and  went  on. 

Music  made  her  happy  —  like  that! 
He  bought  an  evening  paper  and  stud- 
ied it  awhile,  standing  by  the  news- 
stand, with  the  cars  and  taxis  shooting 
109 


THE  WOMAN 

past.  Presently  he  folded  the  paper 
and  took  a  car  that  was  going  toward 
town.  There  was  something  he  could 
do  for  Rosalind  —  something  that  no 
one  had  thought  of  —  something  that 
she  would  like! 

He  was  as  eager  and  as  ignorant  as 
a  boy,  standing  in  front  of  the  barred 
ticket  window  and  looking  in. 

"Tickets  for  the  Symphony?"  The 
man  glanced  out  at  him.  "House 
sold  out." 

Eldridge  stared  back.  "You  mean 
—  I  cannot  —  get  them!" 

"Something  may  come  in.  You  can 
leave  your  name."  The  man  pushed 
paper  and  pencil  toward  him. 

Eldridge  wrote  his  name  slowly. 
"I  want  —  good  ones." 

"Can't     say — "     said     the     man. 


no 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

"There  are  six  ahead  of  you  — "  He 
took  up  the  paper  and  made  a  note. 

Eldridge  stepped  outside.  A  man 
looked  at  him  and  moved  up,  falling 
into  step  beside  him.  "I  have  a 
couple  of  tickets — "  he  said  softly. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  speak- 
ing to  a  man  on  a  quest,  a  man  who 
would  have  paid  whatever  he  might 
ask  for  the  slips  of  paper  in  his  hand  — 
They  were  not  mere  symphony  tick- 
ets he  sold.  They  were  tickets  to  the 
fields  of  the  sun.  He  asked  five  dol- 
lars for  them;  he  might  have  got 
fifty. 

Eldridge  slipped  them  into  his 
pocket.  He  stepped  back  into  the 
hall.  "I  shall  not  need  those  tickets," 
he  said. 

The  man  in  the  window  glanced  at 


THE  WOMAN 

him,  indifferent,  and  crossed  out  a 
name. 

All  the  way  home  Eldridge's  heart 
laughed.  Would  she  like  it  ?  ...  She 
had  played  so  softly  .  .  .  she  would 
listen  like  that  —  and  he  would  be 
with  her.  ...  He  could  not  keep 
the  tickets  in  his  pocket.  He  took 
them  out  and  looked  at  them  —  two, 
plain  blue  slips  with  a  few  black  marks 
on  them.  .  .  .  And  he  had  thought 
of  it  himself!  —  It  was  not  Mr.  El- 
dridge  Walcott's  money  that  bought 
them  for  her.  .  .  .  Would  she  un- 
derstand it  was  not  money —  ? 

She  took  them  from  him  with  half- 
pleased  face  —  "  For  the  Symphony  ? " 
she  said. 

"I  thought  you  might  —  we  — 
might  like  it — " 


112 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

She  looked  at  them  a  minute.  "I 
never  went  to  a  symphony — " 

"Nor  I—"  He  laughed  a  little. 
"I  thought  we  might  —  try  it." 

She  was  still  regarding  them  thought- 
fully. "  I  haven't  anything  to  wear  — 
have  I — ?"  She  looked  up  with  the 
wrinkled  line  between  her  eyes. 

"Wear  your — "  He  checked  it 
on  his  tongue.  "Get  something  — 
There  's  a  week,  you  know.  You  can 
get  something,  can't  you?" 

"Yes,  if  you  think  I  ought - 

"Of  course  —  get  what  you  need." 

She  waited  thoughtfully.  ...  "I 
have  —  a  dress  that  might  do  —  with 
a  little  changing — "  she  said. 

He  saw  with  a  flash,  suddenly,  the 
dark  attic  above  them  —  and  a  man 
on  his  knees  staring  down  at  the  grey 

"3 


THE  WOMAN 

and  shimmering  whiteness.  "Better 
get  something  new,  wouldn't  you?" 
said  Eldridge. 

"  Perhaps  —     I  will  think  —  about 


it.53 


He  could  not  have  told  which  he 

wished But  when,  the  night  of  the 

concert,  she  came  down  to  him  wearing 
the  grey  dress  and  long  grey  gloves, 
with  the  lace  falling  softly  back  —  he 
knew  in  the  flash,  as  he  looked  at  her, 
that  he  was  glad.  .  .  . 

She  was  buttoning  one  of  the  gloves 
and  the  long  grey  coat  hung  from  her 
arm.  She  did  not  look  up. 

He  took  it  from  her  and  wrapped 
her  in  it. 

They  were  going  to  another  world 
—  together.  She  was  going  —  with 

him. 

114 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

There  was  a  little,  quiet  flush  in  her 
face  as  she  sat  in  the  car.  Other  peo- 
ple were  going  to  the  concert,  and  she 
looked  at  them  as  they  came  in  and 
sat  down. 

And  Eldridge  looked  at  Rosalind. 
He  did  not  speak  to  her.  .  .  .  They 
were  going  to  a  new  world  —  and 
the  car  was  taking  them.  .  .  .  Bits 
of  talk  —  color  —  drifting  fragrance 
as  the  coats  fell  back.  .  .  .  The  wo- 
man across  the  aisle  had  a  bunch  of 
violets.  .  .  . 

Why  had  he  not  thought  to  get 
violets  for  Rosalind!  Would  she  have 
liked  flowers  —  ?  She  seemed  a  strange 
Rosalind,  sitting  beside  him  in  the  car 
in  her  grey  dress  —  her  eyes  like  little 
stars.  .  .  .  They  had  three  children 
.  .  .  and  a  brick  house.  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN 

The  car  jolted  on.  Eldridge  would 
have  wished  that  it  might  never  stop. 
.  .  .  There  would  not  be  another 
night  like  this.  He  could  put  out  his 
hand  and  touch  mystery.  .  .  .  Then 
he  was  helping  her  over  the  crowded 
street  and  they  were  in  the  hall  — 
with  flowers  everywhere  —  and  some- 
thing close  about  you  that  touched 
you  when  you  moved. 

For  years  afterward  he  looked  back 
to  that  Symphony  with  Rosalind.  He 
had  come  blindly  to  a  door  —  as 
blindly  as,  when  a  boy,  he  had  walked 
in  the  moonlight  —  and  they  had  gone 
in  together.  They  were  like  children 
in  its  strangeness.  And  as  children  ex- 
plore a  new  field,  they  went  forward. 
It  belonged  to  them  —  the  lights  and 

116 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

people,  and  vibrations  everywhere.  .  .  . 
They  would  go  till  they  came  to  the 
end  —  but  there  would  be  no  end  — 
always  hills  stretching  beyond,  and  a 
wood  —  something  deep,  mysterious 
in  that  wood.  .  .  .  They  came  to  it 
softly,  looking  in,  and  turned  back.  .  .  . 
Once  Rosalind  had  turned  and  looked 
at  him. 

He  held  that  fast  —  through  the 
weeks  and  months  that  went  by, 
through  the  dull  brick  streets,  he  held 
it  fast  —  for  a  moment  the  hidden 
Rosalind  had  come  to  her  window  and 
looked  out  at  him  and  smiled  —  be- 
fore she  turned  away. 


117 


XI 

THE  next  day  Gordon  Barstow  had 
come  to  see  him.  The  divorce 
had  dragged  on.  It  had  not  been  con- 
tested, but  there  had  been  delays  and 
consultations  and  Eldridge  had  come 
to  know  Gordon  Barstow  well. 

He  had  a  kind  of  keen,  vicarious  pity 
for  Barstow.  Sometimes,  as  he  talked 
with  him  and  the  simple  lovableness 
of  the  man's  nature  came  up  through 
the  uncouthness,  he  wondered  whether 
Gordon  Barstow  might  not  have  re- 
gained his  wife  —  if  he  had  been  de- 
termined. But  he  had  let  her  go;  and 
after  the  first  day  he  had  seemed  to 
take  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  the  proceed- 
ings. 

118 


THE  WOMAN 

"I've  been  foolish  about  her,"  he 
said,  sitting  in  Eldridge's  office.  "  But 
I  don't  want  her  to  suffer  because  I  Ve 
been  foolish  —  and  I  want  to  make  her 
an  allowance  —  a  good  one.  I  don't 
want  Cordelia  should  ever  be  poor." 

Eldridge  looked  at  him.  "Won't 
Tower  take  care  of  that?"  he  sug- 
gested. 

The  old  man  seemed  to  hold  it  — 
"He  '11  mean  to.  He  's  honest  toward 
her.  I  shouldn't  let  him  marry  her  if 
he  wasn't  straight.  But  I  want  Cor- 
delia provided  for." 

And  Eldridge  suddenly  saw  that  he 
was  thinking  of  her  as  a  man  thinks 
of  his  daughter  —  protectingly.  The 
soreness  seemed  to  have  gone  out  of 
his  hurt.  And  there  was  something 

big  in  his  attitude  toward  the  two  who 
119 


THE  WOMAN 

had  wronged  him.  "  Cordelia  *s  only  a 
child,"  he  said.  "I  don't  believe  I  'd 
V  minded  so  much  —  if  they  'd  trusted 
me.  It 's  that  that  hurts,  I  guess  — 
thinking  of  the  times  they  must  V  lied 
—  and  I  not  knowing  enough  to  see 
anything  was  wrong." 

Yes  —  it  was  that  that  hurt  —  the 
times  Rosalind  had  slipped  away  from 
him,  before  he  knew  —  when  he  hadn't 
eyes  enough  to  see.  He  did  not  mind 
that  she  went  to  Merwin's.  Some- 
times he  was  impatient  that  she  did 
not  go  oftener.  He  would  watch  ea- 
gerly for  the  look  in  her  face  that 
told  him  that  to-day  was  a  Merwin 
day.  ...  He  did  not  mind  her  going, 
now  that  he  knew.  It  was  the  not 
knowing  that  hurt. 

Sometimes,  lately,  he  had  begun  to 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

wonder  whether  Rosalind  knew  that 
he  was  there,  whether  she  guessed  who 
it  was  that  came  through  the  swinging 
doors  and  sat  across  the  aisle,  always 
a  little  behind  her,  and  went  away  be- 
fore she  left  her  place.  .  .  .  He  liked 
to  fancy  that  she  knew  —  and  did 
not  mind. 

Men  and  women  were  not  so  small 
as  he  had  made  them  in  his  thought. 
There  was  room  in  them  generally  for 
life  to  turn  round. 

It  was  this  that  Gordon  Barstow 
had  taught  him,  he  thought.  He 
watched  the  old  man's  simple  prepa- 
rations to  make  Cordelia  "well  off" 
with  quiet  understanding.  It  was  not 
reparation  with  him;  it  was  only  a 
steady,  clear  intention  in  the  old  man's 
thought  that  the  woman  he  had  loved 


121 


THE  WOMAN 

and  who  had  gone  from  him  should 
not  suffer.  ...  "I  might  have  kept 
her  —  if  I  'd  understood  quick  enough, 
I  guess.  I  'm  slow  —  about  women," 
he  said. 

Then  one  day  he  came  into  the  office. 
Eldridge  had  sent  him  word  that  there 
were  last  papers  to  sign  —  and  the 
business  would  be  done.  He  came  in 
slowly,  a  little  pinched  with  the  cold. 
The  wart  in  the  grey-black  beard  had 
a  bluish  look.  Eldridge  had  learned 
not  to  look  at  the  half-hidden  lump  of 
flesh.  He  had  fancied  one  day,  as  his 
eye  rested  on  it,  that  the  man  shrank 
a  little.  He  had  been  surprised  and 
he  had  never  looked  at  it  again.  It 
was  the  curious  bluish  look  to-day 
that  caught  his  eye  an  instant. 

The  old  man  signed  the  papers  and 


122 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

pushed  them  back.  "Well,  I'm  glad 
—  it 's  done."  He  sat  looking  at  them 
a  minute.  "It 's  taught  me  more  than 
I  ever  knew  before,"  he  said.  He 
lifted  his  eyes  a  minute  to  Eldridge. 
"  I  Ve  learned  things  —  thinking  about 
it  —  and  about  her  — " 

He  sat  without  speaking  a  little 
time.  He  had  come  to  trust  Eldridge, 
and  he  seemed  to  like  to  sit  quiet  like 
this,  at  times,  without  speaking.  "I 
saw  a  woman  to-day,"  he  said,  "that 
made  me  understand  —  more  than 
Cordelia  has  —  a  woman  in  at  Mer- 
win's  — " 

Eldridge  leaned  forward  — 
"She  was  sitting  there  alone,"  said 
the  old  man,  "  and  I  see  her  face  - 
one  of  these  quiet  faces  —  not  old  and 

not  young.    I  could  'a'  loved  her  if  I  'd 

123 


THE  WOMAN 

known  her  when  I  was  younger  —  I 
see  how  she  was  —  she  sat  so  quiet 
there.  Well"  —  he  got  up  and  reached 
for  his  hat  —  "you  Ve  seen  me  through. 
Thank  you  —  for  what  you  Ve  done." 
And  then  he  went  out  and  Eldridge 
looked  at  his  watch  —  Too  late. 
She  would  be  gone.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  missed  heir  —  since  he 
knew.  He  had  not  thought  that  Bar- 
stow's  business  would  take  so  long. 
He  gathered  up  the  papers,  filing  cer- 
tain ones  and  addressing  others  to  be 
mailed.  ...  He  should  miss  the  old 
man.  He  had  a  feeling  underneath 
his  thought,  as  he  sorted  the  papers 
and  filed  them,  that  he  was  glad  Bar- 
stow  had  sat  so  long  even  though  he 
had  missed  Rosalind.  ...  He  had 

seemed  to  want  to  stay. 
124 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

Eldridge  filed  the  last  of  the  papers 
and  looked  again  at  his  watch.  It 
was  late,  but  not  too  late,  he  decided, 
to  begin  the  piece  of  work  that  had 
been  put  off  for  nearly  a  week.  He  be- 
came absorbed  in  it,  and  it  was  seven 
o'clock  before  he  left  the  office. 

The  newsboys  were  shouting  extras 
—  as  he  came  out  —  and  he  put  one 
in  his  pocket.  He  did  not  open  it. 
Some  one  took  a  seat  by  him  in  the  car 
and  they  talked  till  the  car  reached 
home.  Then  the  children  claimed  him; 
and  after  supper  he  talked  a  little 
while  with  Rosalind. 

There  was  a  maid  now  in  the  kitchen 
and  Rosalind's  hands,  he  was  think- 
ing, as  they  lay  in  her  lap,  were  not 
red  and  roughened;  they  had  a  deli- 
cate look.  She  sat  sometimes  without 
125 


THE  WOMAN 

any  sewing  in  them  or  any  fussy  work 
—  talking  with  him  or  sitting  quiet. 
The  first  time  she  had  sat  so,  without 
speaking,  he  had  felt  as  if  the  silence 
were  calling  out  —  shouting  his  hap- 
piness —  telling  the  world  that  Rosa- 
lind trusted  him. 

He  opened  the  paper  and  glanced  at 
it  —  and  ^dropped  it  —  as  if  he  were 
seeing  something. 

She  looked  up.  "What  is  it?"  she 
asked. 

He  took  it  up  again  slowly.  "It's 
a  man  —  I  know  —  Gordon  Barstow. 
They  found  him  dead  —  in  his  car 
this  afternoon.  It  Js  some  one  you 
never  knew." 


126 


XII 

WEEKS  passed  and  she  had  not 
gone  to  Merwin's.  For  a  while 
Eldridge  watched  her  face  and  waited 
for  the  Merwin  look  to  come.  .  .  . 
Then  he  forgot  it  —  for  weeks  he  did 
not  think  of  it.  There  had  been  an- 
other concert;  they  had  gone  to  a  play 
and  then  to  another;  and  as  the  spring 
came  on  he  took  her  for  long  drives 
into  the  country;  sometimes  they  went 
with  the  children,  but  more  often  alone. 
They  drove  far  out  in  the  country  and 
came  back  at  early  dusk,  the  brick 
houses  softly  outlined  about  them. 
She  could  not  fail  to  see  that  he  was 

devoted  to  her.    Sometimes  he  brought 

127 


THE  WOMAN 

a  flower  and  left  it  on  her  table;  he 
never  gave  it  to  her  directly,  and  there 
was  no  response  to  it.  Beyond  the 
one  quiet  look  at  the  concert,  she  had 
given  no  sign  —  only  that  now  she 
would  sit  with  him  silent,  a  long  time, 
as  if  she  did  not  repel  him. 

He  was  working  hard  and  the  busi- 
ness had  grown.  A  new  class  of  clients 
was  coming  to  him  —  men  with  big 
interests  —  and  the  work  often  kept 
him  late  at  the  office.  Sometimes  he 
would  take  supper  in  town  and  work 
far  into  the  evening. 

It  was  late  in  June  that  he  came 
home  one  night  and  found  her  sitting 
alone  in  the  porch  —  a  shadowy  fig- 
ure —  as  he  came  up  the  brick  walk. 

The  day  had  been  warm,  but  the 

air  had  grown  cool  now  and  the  moon 

128 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

glimmered  over  the  houses  and  roofs 
and  on  the  few  trees  and  shrubs  in  the 
yard. 

They  sat  a  long  time  in  the  porch, 
talking  of  the  children  and  of  the  work 
he  had  stayed  for  and  a  little  about 
going  away  for  the  summer;  they  had 
never  been  away  in  the  summer,  but 
they  were  going  next  week.  He  had 
tried  to  send  her  earlier,  when  the 
children  were  through  school,  but  she 
had  waited,  and  he  had  arranged  for 
them  all  to  get  away  together. 

The  moon  rose  high  over  the  roofs 
and  picked  out  the  little  lines  of  vines 
on  the  porch  and  touched  her  face 
and  hair.  She  was  wearing  a  light 
dress,  something  filmy,  that  was  half 
in  shadow,  and  his  eyes  traced  the 

lines   of  it.     She  was   always   myste- 
129 


THE  WOMAN 

rious,  but  often  now  as  he  looked  at 
her  he  felt  that  her  guard  was  down. 
There  were  only  a  few  steps  more 
to  cross  —  he  began  to  wonder  if  he 
should  ever  take  them  —  to-night  per- 
haps? Or  was  he  not,  after  all,  the 
man  to  win  her? 

She  did  not  hold  him  back.  It  was 
something  in  him  that  waited.  He 
watched,  through  the  moonlight,  the 
vine  shadows  on  her  face  —  and  he 
remembered  the  night  when  she  lay 
asleep  —  and  he  had  watched  her  face 
—  the  stranger's  face  —  close  to  him 
.  .  .  and  a  boy  and  girl  stood  in  the 
moonlight  and  looked  at  him  mist- 
ily —  and  drew  back  —  and  his  wife 
swayed  a  little,  rocking  in  her  chair, 
and  her  shadow  moved  on  the  floor.  .  .  . 

If  he  should  speak  —  to  her  —  now  — 

130 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

what  would  she  do?     Would  the  gen- 
tle rocking  cease?  .  .  . 

Then,  slowly,  a  face  grew  before  him. 
He  watched  it  shape  and  fade  —  with 
its  grimness  and  kindness  and  a  look 
of  pain  that  lay  behind  it  —  old  Bar- 
stow' s  face !  .  .  .  He  knew  now  —  he 
had  come  out  of  the  moonlight.  .  .  . 
To-morrow  he  would  speak  to  Rosa- 
lind —  face  to  face,  in  the  clear  light 
of  every  day.  .  .  .  The  wonder  of  life 
was  hidden  in  the  sun  —  not  in  half 
lights  —  or  moonlight.  .  .  .  He  was 
not  afraid  now.  They  would  go  for  a 
long  drive  —  and  he  would  tell  her  in 
the  sun. 

But  when  he  looked  at  her  in  the 
morning  he  knew  that  he  was  not  to 

take  her  with  him  out  into  the  coun- 
131 


THE  WOMAN 

try.  It  was  the  Merwin  look  —  a  lit- 
tle look  of  quiet  intentness  as  if  she 
dreamed  and  would  not  wake.  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  it  and  turned  away. 
He  had  not  seen  the  look  for  weeks, 
but  he  knew  that  he  should  find  her 
there  when  he  pushed  open  the  swing- 
ing doors  and  went  in. 

The  curtains  were  drawn  a  little 
back  and  he  knew,  before  he  sat  down, 
that  she  was  there  —  waiting  for  some 
one.  .  .  .  He  had  never  seen  her  like 
this  —  he  had  not  been  sure.  He  had 
put  the  thought  from  him  when  it 
came.  But  now  he  knew  —  she  was 
there  waiting  for  some  one,  full  of  hap- 
piness. .  .  .  He  knew  her  so  well! 
She  could  not  have  a  happiness  he  did 
not  share  —  and  no  one  should  hurt 

her!     His  hands  half  clinched. 

132 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

He  had  not  thought  she  would  come 
—  again.  .  .  .  Why  had  she  come? 
And  this  was  his  day  —  under  the 
sky!  .  .  .  He  had  not  thought  this 
day  she  would  come  to  Merwin's! 

Then  he  waited  with  her.  What- 
ever Rosalind  chose  —  she  should  not 
separate  herself  from  him  —  or  from 
love.  .  .  .  He  would  wait  with  her 
and  be  glad  with  her.  .  .  .  The  strange 
face  —  the  moonlight  face  —  did  not 
shut  him  out  now.  .  .  . 

The  swinging  doors  opened  and 
closed  and  the  man  and  the  woman 
waited. 

The  curtains  to  her  alcove  were 
closed;  she  had  reached  a  hand  to 
them  and  drawn  them  together.  .  .  . 
But  she  could  not  shut  herself  away; 

he  could  see  her  as  clearly  as  if  he  were 

133 


THE  WOMAN 

there  with  her  —  the  bent  head  and 
gentle  face.  The  curtains  should  not 
shut  him  out. 

He  could  not  have  told  when  it  was 
that  it  came  to  him  —  He  lifted  his 
head  a  minute  and  looked  at  it.  ... 
She  was  there  waiting  for  some  one  — 
she  had  been  waiting,  a  long  time,  in 
her  alcove  —  and  he  had  not  stirred ! 

He  got  up  slowly  and  looked  across 
to  the  green  curtain  —  He  moved 
toward  it  —  and  put  out  his  hand  and 

—  drew   back   the   curtain.  .  .  .    She 
was  looking  up,  smiling  —     "  You  were 

—  a  long  time!"  she  said. 

Her  hand  motioned  to  the  seat  across 
the  table  —  but  he  did  not  take  it. 
He  stood  looking  down  at  her  — 

He  laid  his  hat  on  the  table  and  bent 

and  kissed  her. 

134 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

Her  lip  trembled  a  little  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

He  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite 

and  looked  at  her "Well—?" 

he  said. 

She  shook  the  tears  from  her  eyes 
and  smiled  through  them.  "It  was  a 
long  while!"  she  said. 


135 


XIII 

THE  man  and  the  woman  in  the 
alcove  on  the  right  had  been 
talking  a  long  while.  Three  times  the 
waiter  had  looked  in  and  withdrawn. 
If  he  had  stopped  long  enough  he 
would  have  seen  that  it  seemed  to 
be  the  woman  who  was  talking.  The 
man  sat  silent,  one  hand  shading  his 
eyes  and  the  eyes  looking  out  at  her 
as  she  talked. 

The  waiter  knew  the  woman.  He 
had  served  her  —  many  times.  He 
remembered  very  well  the  first  day 
she  came  to  Merwin's  —  a  year  ago 
—  more  than  a  year,  perhaps.  She  was 

alone,  and  she  had  stood  just  inside  the 

136 


THE  WOMAN 

swinging  door  —  looking  about  her  as 
if  she  were  not  used  to  places  like 
Merwin's  —  or  as  if  she  were  afraid. 
Something  had  made  him  think  that 
she  was  looking  for  some  one  —  and  he 
had  shown  her  into  the  third  alcove  on 
the  right.  But  no  one  had  come  that 
day.  She  had  come  again  many  times 
since,  and  always  alone,  and  there  was 
always  a  coin  on  the  table  in  the  third 
alcove  waiting  for  him. 

The  waiter  was  a  little  disappointed 
to-day.  .  .  .  He  knew  the  man  - 
Eldridge  Walcott  —  a  lawyer  —  a  good 
enough  sort;  but  the  waiter  somehow 
felt  that  they  had  not  met  until  to- 
day, He  had  served  them  both  alone 
—  but  not  together  —  until  to-day.  .  .  . 
He  pushed  aside  the  curtain  and  looked 

in. 

137 


THE  WOMAN 

She  was  still  talking.  .  .  .  The  man 
made  a  little  gesture  of  refusal,  and  he 
withdrew.  .  .  . 

"It  was  when  Tom  sent  me  the  five 
hundred  — "  the  waiter  heard  her  say 
as  the  curtain  fell  in  place. 

The  man  in  the  alcove  behind  the 
curtain  was  looking  at  her —  "When 
did  Tom  send  you  —  five  hundred?" 

"A  year  ago  —  a  little  more  than  a 
year,  I  think —  "  She  paused  to  think 
it  out.  "  He  had  not  sent  us  anything, 
you  know  —  not  since  little  Tom  was 
born —  ?"  She  was  looking  at  him, 
straight 

His  own  look  did  not  flinch.  "I 
know  —  I  put  it  into  the  business  — 
called  it  investing  it  —  for  Tommie  — 
at  six  per  cent." 

She  nodded.    "Tom  never  liked  it. 

138 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

I  suppose  mother  told  him  —  that  we 
had  not  used  it  to  buy  things  with  — 
the  way  he  meant  us  to." 

"For  things  you  needed,'*  said  the 
man.  "I  know  —  I  knew  then  —  but 
I  took  it."  He  did  not  excuse  himself 

—  and  his  eyes  did  not  look  away  from 
her.    "I  was  blind,"  he  said  softly. 

"That  was  what  Tom  wrote  —  when 
he  sent  the  five  hundred.  He  said 
that  I  must  spend  it  on  myself  —  or 
return  it  to  him.  .  .  .  And  that  I  was 
to  tell  him  just  what  I  bought  with  it 

—  every  penny  of  it  — "     She  waited 
a  minute. 

"Did  he  say  anything  else?"  asked 
the  man.  "Better  tell  me  everything,, 
wouldn't  you  —  Rosalind?" 

"He  said  that  he  was  not  setting 

Eldridge  Walcott  up  in  business,"  she 
139 


THE  WOMAN 

added  after  a  little  minute  —  and  she 
smiled  at  him  tenderly. 

Eldridge  returned  the  look —  "We 
don't  mind  —  now." 

"No."  .  .  .  They  were  silent  a  few 
minutes.  "I  thought  —  at  first  —  I 
would  send  it  back.  I  wrote  to  Tom 
how  many  things  we  needed  —  for  the 
house  —  and  the  children  —  and  for 
everything  — " 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  asked  me  if  you  would  let  me 
spend  it  for  the  house  and  for  the  chil- 
dren and  for  everything  —  if  you  knew 
about  it?" 

The  man's  eyes  were  looking  at  Mr. 
Eldridge  Walcott,  regarding  him  im- 
partially. "I  am  glad  that  you  did 
not  let  me  know." 

"Yes.    I  sent  it  back  —  once.    But 

140 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

Tom  wrote  again  —  all  about  when  we 
were  children  and  when  he  gave  me 
the  biggest  bites  of  candy  and  filled 
my  pail  up  to  the  top  when  we  went 

berrying He  said  it  was  what  had 

made  a  man  of  him  —  keeping  my  pail 
full." 

Eldridge  winced  a  little.  But  she 
did  not  stop.  "He  said  he  wanted  me 
to  spend  the  money  for  the  little  girl 
he  knew. 

"  I  didn't  spend  it  —  not  for  a  long 
time,  you  know.  But  I  kept  it  and  I 
looked  at  it  —  sometimes  —  and  won- 
dered. .  .  .  Then  one  day  I  saw  a 
dress  —  that  I  liked.  I  thought  it  was 
like  me,  a  little — ?"  She  looked  at 
him 

He  nodded. 

"  So  I  got  it  —  and  that  was  the  end, 
141 


THE  WOMAN 

I  guess."  She  laughed  tremulously. 
"Everything  kept  coming  after  that. 
The  dress  seemed  to  make  me  need 

—  everything!"     She   spread    out    her 
hands. 

Then  she  sat  thinking  —  and  look- 
ing at  the  dress  that  needed  every- 
thing. "I  wore  it  at  first  just  at  home 

—  when  I  was  alone.     I  would  put  it 
on  and  sit  down  and  fold  my  hands  — 
and  think  of  things  .  .  .  about  Tom 
and   about   being   a   little   girl  —  and 
about  mother.     I  was  always  rested 
when  I  took  it  off  ...  and  when  the 
children  came  in  from  school  and  you 
came  home,  I  could  bear  things  bet- 
ter." .  .  . 

He  reached  out  a  hand  and  touched 
hers  where  it  lay  on  the  table.  .  .  . 

He  had  said  that  he  should  touch  it  — 
142 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

some  time.  He  stroked  it  a  minute 
and  she  went  on. 

"Then  I  came  here  — "  She  made  a 
little  gesture.  "I  didn't  know  what 
it  was  like  —  I  didn't  even  know  there 
was  a  place  like  this."  She  glanced 
around  the  alcove  that  sheltered  them 
—  with  its  folds  of  green  curtain  — 
"But  as  soon  as  I  came,  I  knew  I 
should  come  again.  I  knew  it  would 
take  care  of  me  —  the  way  Tom  wanted 
for  me.  So  I  spent  the  money."  She 
lifted  the  little  linked  purse  from 
the  table  —  she  laughed.  "Only  fifty 
cents  left  —  You  're  here  just  in 
time!" 

Eldridge  held  out  his  hand.  "Give 
it  to  me." 

She  looked  at  him. 

"I  want  it  —  yes.    Aren't  you  will- 

143 


THE  WOMAN 

ing  to  give  me  fifty  cents  —  of  your 
five  hundred?" 

She  handed  it  to  him  with  a  little 
sigh  of  relief. 

He  took  it  and  balanced  it  thought- 
fully in  his  hand —  "Why  did  you 
come  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"This  is  my  anniversary  day." 

"To-day?" 

She  nodded  —  as  if  she  saw  a  vision. 
"It  is  a  year  to-day  that  I  came  here 

—  the  first  time." 

"Alone — ?"  The  word  breathed 
itself —  and  stopped,  and  Eldridge  put 
out  a  hand.  "Don't  tell  me!  I  did 
not  ask  it." 

"Don't  you  know?"  She  was  look- 
ing at  him. 

:'Yes,  I  know.    I  do  not  understand 

—  but  I  know." 

144 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

She  smiled  and  sat  silent.  ...  "I 
was  frightened  to  come!"  It  seemed 
as  if  she  were  looking  at  the  strange- 
ness of  it.  "  I  was  afraid  —  the  first 
day—" 

"You  should  have  asked  me  to 
come,"  he  urged. 

"Would  you  have  come?" 

"No --not  then." 

"And  I  had  to  come!  I  could  not 
wait  —  and  there  was  —  no  one.  .  .  . 
You  would  not  have  come  —  not  even 
if  I  had  waited." 

"No  —  I  should  not  have  come  — 
except  to  find  you.  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
have  you  never  been  afraid  of  me  — 
of  what  I  would  do?" 

"The  first  day  —  yes  —  I  was  ter- 
ribly frightened  when  you  came  in 
and  sat  over  there,"  she  moved  her 
us 


THE  WOMAN 

hand.  "I  wanted  to  scream  out  —  to 
go  to  you  and  tell  you  what  it  meant, 
and  beg  you  not  to  be  angry.  ...  I 
had  never  done  anything  without  you 
before.  I  was  like  a  child!  Then  you 
went  out  and  I  hurried  home.  I  tore 
off  the  things.  I  did  not  mind  your 
knowing.  I  only  wanted  you  to  un- 
derstand. I  was  afraid  you  might  not 

—  understand." 
"I  didn't—" 

"  No  —  I  know.     But  after  a  while 

—  I   knew  you  were  trying  to.  ... 
Then  I  knew  that  some  day  we  should 
be  here  —  together." 

The  little  alcove  seemed  to  expand 
and  become  a  wide  place  —  Eldridge 
caught  a  glimpse  of  something  fine  and 
sincere  —  it  passed  like  a  breath  over 

her  face  and  was  gone. 
146 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

She  lifted  the  face  —  "I  have  waited 
for  it,"  she  said.  "I  have  prayed  for 
it  every  day,  I  think/'  Her  lips  barely 
moved  the  words  —  "I  did  not  want 
to  feel  alone  here." 

He  pushed  back  the  curtain  and 
beckoned  to  the  waiter.  "We  will 
drink  to  the  day,"  he  said. 

Eldridge  gave  his  order  and  looked 
on,  smiling,  while  the  waiter  placed 
the  slender-necked  flask  on  the  table 
and  brought  out  the  glasses  and  with- 
drew. 

They  lifted  the  glasses.  "To  the 
day  —  you  left  me,"  he  said.  "And 
to  the  day  I  followed  you,"  he  added 
slowly. 

The  glass  paused  in  her  hand.  " That 
was  the  Symphony —  ?" 

''Yes  —    And  to  your  anniversary!" 
147 


THE  WOMAN 

She  set  down  the  glass.  "  I  have  not 
told  you  everything.  It  was  not  — 
my  anniversary  —  made  me  come  — 
to-day." 

"No?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  came  —  to 
meet  —  you!"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her  slowly —  "And 
when  did  you  know  that  I  would 
come?"  he  asked. 

"  Last  night  —  in  the  moonlight.  I 
was  so  afraid  you  would  speak  there  — 
in  the  moon!  I  did  not  want  the  moon 
to  get  in,"  she  said.  "I  wanted  you  to 
speak  in  real,  plain  daylight  —  and 
then,  of  course,  you  know,  it 's  Tom's 
gown  and  not  the  moon.  Everybody 
has  the  moon!"  she  laughed. 

"This  is  a  very  little  place,  this  al- 
cove," said  Eldridge.  He  was  looking 
148 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

about  him  at  the  green  walls  of  the 
alcove  —  thinking  of  the  sun  and  the 
fields  and  of  the  road  up  through 
the  hills  — 

"  But  it 's  where  I  went  berrying 
with  Tom,"  she  laughed. 

He  smiled  at  her.  "Then  it  is  as  big 
as  the  world  —  and  the  sun  and  all 
the  fields  of  the  sun!"  he  said. 

Outside  the  curtain  the  music  tin- 
kled dimly,  and  there  was  a  lower 
music  still  of  all  the  glasses  and  words 
—  and  there  was  a  silence  in  the  al- 


cove. 

(C 


So  there  has  never  been  any  one  — 
any  one  but  me — "  he  said,  "in  your 
alcove!"  He  was  looking  at  her  hap- 


"No."      Her    lip    waited    on    it  — 

and  closed.    "There  was  some  one — " 
149 


THE  WOMAN 

she  spoke  slowly.  "It  seems  a  queer 
thing  to  tell.  It  had  no  beginning  and 
no  end!"  She  waited,  still  looking  at 
it.  ...  "It  was  a  man  —  an  old  man 
—  that  used  to  sit  over  there  to  the 
left,  at  a  table  by  himself.  I  could 
see  him  through  the  curtains.  Even 
when  they  were  almost  closed  I  could 
see  him.  He  always  sat  there,  and 
always  alone.  ...  I  did  not  notice 
him  at  first.  ...  I  do  not  think 
any  one  would  have  noticed  him  —  at 
first.  He  was  almost  ugly  —  or  he 
seemed  ugly."  She  was  smiling  at  her 
thought.  .  .  .  "And  one  day  sud- 
denly I  saw  him  as  he  really  was,  as 
he  was  inside  —  very  gentle  and  strong 
and  wise  —  and  not  wanting  to  hurt 
any  one  or  to  let  any  one  suffer  —  more 
than  they  had  to.  I  knew,  some  way, 


IN  THE  ALCOVE 

if  I  should  go  up  to  him  and  speak  to 
him,  that  he  would  understand  me  — 
and  help  me.  I  should  have  liked  to  — 
speak  to  him.  Of  course  it  is  really  the 
same  as  if  I  did."  .  .  .  She  seemed 
thinking  of  it.  "  But  I  didn't.  I  never 
saw  him  more  than  a  dozen  times,  I 
suppose.  But  I  used  to  think  about 
him,  and  it  helped  me.  I  should  have 
trusted  him  anywhere  —  and  been  will- 
ing to  go  with  him  —  anywhere  in  the 
world.  I  don't  believe  he  was  very 
clever  —  but  it  rested  me  to  think  of 
him  —  just  as  a  big,  homely  field  rests 
you  —  and  the  way  the  music  did 
that  first  night  —  when  we  knew  each 
other-  -" 

After  a  minute  she  went  on.  "I 
have  not  seen  him  for  a  long  time. 
He  stopped  coming  suddenly.  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN 

There  was  one  day  —  when  he  went 
out  —  he  looked  at  me.  I  almost 
thought  he  would  stop.  ...  I  was 
frightened  —  and  glad !  And  he  went 
on.  I  have  not  seen  him  since.  .  .  ." 

Outside  the  glasses  and  plates  clicked. 
The  violin  sounded  softly  through  the 
murmuring  words.  "And  yet  there 
was  nothing  to  tell  him,"  she  said,  "ex- 
cept —  that  I  was  waiting  —  for  you." 

He  looked  in  her  eyes  —  Far 
within  them  something  was  coming 
to  him  —  the  sun  lay  on  a  thousand 
fields,  and  the  little  alcove  was  very 
still. 


152 


A    000132273     4 


